This doesn't cut it.

I have a picture of myself here, it’s an ID photo for gaining entry to one of San Francisco’s jails from the days when I used to do outreach in the jails. Damned if that picture—a photo taken by the Sheriff’s Department—doesn’t look real good. It’s not normal for a photo ID taken by a municipal employee to look good.

But here’s the thing: I was taking care of myself and not in the half-measures way that seems to be availing me nothing. I was getting to the gym four times a week and careful about what I ate. Now I pretty much make it there twice, just to use the lockers and shower when I run, and never actually do anything inside the gym. And I have thirty pounds and three notches on my belt to show for it. And a lot less strength.

I’ve fallen back to a level of exercise appropriate for cardiac patients and the morbidly obese. I’m probably getting all of the systemic health benefits of exercise, and that’s a good thing, but I’m not actually improving, and I’ve fallen way back.

This is just a learning experience, I guess. Self-improvement is hard. Listen to that in your mind’s ear in Talking Barbie’s voice, but self-improvement rather than math.

The thing is, I don’t know any way other than self-improvement to stop hating myself. If I’m not good enough now, I have only two choices: acceptance or action. I need to better myself or else somehow develop the denial mechanisms for self-acceptance. I don’t seem to have those mechanisms. I’m vaguely haunted by the idea that improvement won’t be enough, but I’m into the idea that progress helps even when we fall short of our ideals.

Blackout—Muse