The Bearded Belly Chronicles-Chapter 10 :- The Pasty Orca Strikes Back

 

Chapter Ten – The Pasty Orca Strikes Back

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The Whisper That Turned Into a Shout

It started with a whisper... that familiar voice of self-doubt that turns into a shout if I don’t shut it down fast enough.

Jess was away Friday night. I had a meal planned. But instead of cracking on with work or ticking off the to-do list, I sat there all day thinking:
What can I eat later? What should I eat? What will make it go away?

It took over. The whole day got consumed.

But here's the wild realisation of this journey  its like there are more hours in the day now. I've got time back. Not just minutes or hours, but mental space.

Six months ago, I wouldn't have even realised this constant fog was part of the problem. I'd feel like I was drowning in work, always behind, always stressed... without knowing why.

Now? Aside from days like Friday, I'm getting stuff done. I'm sharper. I'm showing up properly.

So yeah... I ordered a takeaway. The guilt followed. Then the shame.
I'd literally just posted about facing the battle  and less than 24 hours later, I was shrinking into the corner again.

But here's where things shifted.

Friday night. Takeaway eaten. Jess away. I gave myself a proper talking to.

I had the boys for the weekend. I couldn't fill it with binge eating and ultra-processed junk that messes with their neurodiversity and their moods. I had to snap out of it.

And I did.

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Cookies, Chocolate, and the Quiet Win

Saturday morning started with intention. I needed a win...
So I brought out the big guns... meal planning.

If you haven't used ChatGPT to plan your family meals... honestly, give it a go. It's taken us from “spag bol again?” to actual flavour and variety. I pop in who's eating, when, and how fussy they are... and thirty seconds later, I've got a week of recipes and a full shopping list.

But that wasn't the real win.

The real win happened in the car.

I can't remember the last time I gave in to an in-car snack... and for years, that used to be my battlefield.

Every supermarket trip. Every petrol station stop.
It wasn't a choice... it was a compulsion. A habit wired deep.

I'd grab something... chocolate bars, a pack of cookies... sometimes both.
And they'd be gone before I even got home.

Five minutes of chewing... twenty-four hours of guilt.

I'd hide the wrappers. Wipe the crumbs off my lap.
Pretend it didn't happen... again.

It wasn't about hunger. It was about shutting something up inside me.
Giving myself five minutes of false comfort... then hating myself for it afterwards.

But this Saturday... nothing.

No voice. No craving. No wrestling match in the crisp aisle.
Just me and the boys, grabbing what we needed, laughing in the queue.

We finished the shop... wandered into town...
Treated CEX like it was an old-school Blockbusters and each picked a film for the weekend.

And that's when it hit me...

I used to reward myself with food.
Now I'm rewarding myself with moments.

Little rituals.
Simple stuff.
Stuff that doesn't end in shame... but actually sticks.

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Sweating or Crying... I Stayed

I haven't been back to the gym since I started this journey... not because of my body, but because of my brain.

The gym messes with my head.

It's not the machines or the effort. It's the spotlight my anxiety creates the second I walk in.
Like everyone stops what they're doing to look at me... the fat bloke lumbering through the door.
I know it's not real... but it feels real.
My chest tightens. My brain spins. My eyes flit across the room like I'm trapped in a Mission Impossible laser maze... except I'm just trying to reach the rowing machine without having a breakdown.

Then come the comparisons.
The guys who look like they were sculpted by Michelangelo.
Arms bulging through tight sleeves. That smug, post-leg-day bounce.
Smiles that say, “This is my second workout today.”
Meanwhile, I'm just hoping I don't look like I'm there to raid the vending machine.

And yet... I've managed to go swimming.
I've stood in broad daylight looking like a rare, pasty white orca... belly out... everything on show.
At least in the gym, I get to keep my clothes on.
So surely I can handle this... right?

Monday came... and the voice inside me got louder.

You've done harder things.
You've stood in darker places.
You've walked into rooms you didn't feel welcome in... and made space anyway.
This is just another room.

So I drove there.

I sat in the car for ten minutes... locked in full-blown civil war.
One voice telling me to go home.
The other voice... the newer one... telling me I've already come too far to quit.

And then I opened the door.

The gym was packed.
My legs shook.
Hoodie up. Head down. I picked a machine and started.

By minute twelve, I didn't know if I was sweating or crying...
but I didn't stop.

Heart rate up.

Inner critic down.
I found a zone.

I stayed for an hour and a half.

My eyes still darted.
My brain still whispered, “They're judging you.”
But they weren't.

They were focused on their own journeys.
Just like me.

And I left knowing something had shifted.
I hadn't just worked out.
I'd won a fight with myself.

Another hurdle... cleared.

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The Storm and the Anchor

Tuesday brought a different kind of challenge.

Tommy had a major meltdown... one of those full-on, three-hour storms that drains the tank... emotionally, mentally, physically.

There's no manual for it.
No “right” thing to say.
Just presence... patience... and a deep breath when it starts to boil.

But we managed it.

Carefully.
Calmly.
Quietly holding the line.

And I'm getting better at reading the signs... spotting when he needs anchoring, not fixing... when silence helps more than words... when my own reactions could fan the flames.

I hope he feels it.
That we're learning how to support him... not just react to him.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't perfect.

But it was love... in its hardest, truest form.

One of those unseen victories that matter more than anything.

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No Noise, Just Movement

After Tuesday... the rest of the week found its rhythm.

Checklist? Tick.
Water? Drank by the gallon.
Fasting? Felt easy.

There wasn't any internal noise.
No constant food chatter.
No dragging myself through it.

I was just... in the groove.

And the gym visit gave me even more resolve...
Because deep down, I'd love to build my fitness back to where I can go for a run again.

Running was always my mental reset.
My space.
My rhythm.
The thing that made everything else feel manageable.

I want that back.

Not for weight loss.
Not for numbers.

Just for my mental well being.

Still Me. Still Moving.

And then came Friday...

The routine was off.
I'd had a late night working.
Not sure what triggered it... but I became a hoover.
Every bite of food in sight... gone in seconds.

But this time... no shame.
No spiral.
No self-hate.

I just... ate.

And I'm choosing not to dissect it.

Because I'm writing this on Saturday morning... with a plan.
I'm going back to the gym.
I'm spoiling Jess for Mother's Day tomorrow.

I've still got stretch marks... cravings... and self-doubt.

But I've also got something louder.

Momentum.