I was swole shamed by a doctor this week, mocked and humiliated by him in front of my peers, simply because of his hatred for mid-bulk, able-bodied people like myself. His shitlord view that only thin, tenuous people can be healthy is a disgrace; us big, beautiful, bodybuilders can still be healthy and huge.
On Monday evening, after finishing up my traditional heavy back day (aided, of course, by sixteen scoops of a little performance enhancing creatine mixed with cookie dough for added carbs and calories), I decided to head to the market to pick up a few items. You see, I am on the tail-end of a bulk and constantly require high-calorie, nutritious meals to aid me on reaching my goal weight of a lean 437lbs. This means I am forced to undergo near perpetual stops to the market in order to keep my kitchen stocked with the necessities: meat, chicken, cake, syrup, supplements, Doritos, and gallons of milk. This particular store, which will go unnamed for legal—Walmart—reasons, also happened to have a buffet complete with plenty of steak, chicken, tuna, and other protein-rich foods. I knew I would be able to hit my macros whilst shopping for a few bulking items.
The drive to the store was uneventful, if not slightly slow. I was forced to hang my left lat out the driver’s side window due to the extreme pump I had following the day’s heavy deadlifts. My right lat was buckled safely into the passenger’s seat, airbag on and window closed. However, due to lefty catching the wind and acting as a sail outside the window, my vehicle veered slightly to the left at all times, resulting in me driving quite slowly. I knew I needed to get some protein in me soon, so I began to grow a bit agitated as I crawled to the market.
By the time I arrived at the grocery store, I must admit that I was in a rather unpleasant mood. The earlier scoops of creatine were beginning to send me into a roid-rage as I attempted to maneuver myself out of the vehicle, heart beating faster in agitation. It wasn’t until several feet away that I realized I had forgotten to unbuckle the seatbelt holding my right lat. I had involuntarily flexed as I stood, thus causing the passenger seat to explode, parts of the chair still buckled onto my lat and following me as I walked. This was the fourth time it had happened that month, so I was—understandably—rather upset. I unbuckled the remains and placed them softly on the hood of my car, then resumed toward the grocery store.
At this point, I had already walked upwards of 40 yards since leaving the gym fifteen minutes prior. I knew I was dangerously close to cardiovascular activity, which meant my gains were now at risk. I decided to take advantage of the store’s wonderful availability of Rascal scooters. I grabbed two and placed a butt-cheek on each’s wheel-well, lat’s resting against the leather seats on either side. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it worked well enough.
I powered into the store, rascals struggling to reach top speed under my current bulk weight of 411lbs. It was crowded inside, people shopping, children running, grocers grocery-ing. I immediately felt the eyes of dozens of the thin-privileged upon me, their heads turning as my scooters slowly passed by, a soft electric buzz breaking the silence of the room. The life of a swoldier is nothing if not almost constant judgment.
I paid no mind to their glares, continuing on my way to the buffet line. I needed to get some protein in me to ensure I’d hit my day’s macros, and I knew that time was running short. I slowly drove through the store, lats knocking various items onto the floor as I squeezed through the thin-body-made aisles of a mere six foot width. My rear deltoids, enflamed from earlier wide-grip rows, accidentally knocked into a woman and her child, sending them both skidding in opposite directions across the floor. I contemplated stopping to ensure they had survived, but the buffet table had just come into view—my macros had to come first.
As I pulled my rascals up beside the buffet, I realized I had become severely out of breath from the trek. My heart was pounding—I knew I had accidentally engaged in cardio. Several thin people were picking at low calorie, low protein foods—carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, pastas. With no time for their ignorance, I cut ahead and delicately placed my face deep into the container of grilled chicken breasts. I began chewing on whatever my mouth came in contact with, biting and gnawing to hit my caloric and protein goals. Before long, I had finished the entire two gallon container of chicken, including the barbecue sauce it had been filled with. Protein coursed through my veins, a sharp burn spreading with it. It was then that my heart decided to begin a circuit of HIIT. I had never specifically isolated my heart whilst training, so the sensation was quite unique. I could feel my heart working for its gains as the pain spread through my chest and arms, body crumbling to the floor to ensure a good, clean extension on each heartbeat super-set.
This is when it happened, when I experienced a new low in swole shaming.
As I lay on the floor, body paralyzed by the sheer effectiveness of my heart’s training technique, a man began performing CPR on me. He got on his knees, placed his hands over my massive, temporarily fat-covered pecs, and pumped. I tried to protest, to shout at him to allow me to finish my set, but my throat refused to respond. By the time I was able to string together a coherent response, he had successfully interrupted my heart’s workout.
As if that wasn’t enough, the man then had the gall to claim I was “having a heart attack,” and that I needed to go to a hospital. I laughed as I tried to explain his ignorance, that I was completely and utterly healthy—simply mid bulk—and that my “heart attack” was nothing more some high intensity heart training. He refused to listen, telling me he was a cardiologist and that I was at an unhealthy weight—as if he knew more about health than I do. He said I needed to lose some weight and gains if I wanted to live.
I’m not going to lie to you. It hurt. It really did. To be told that my body wasn’t HIS ideal, that my life wasn’t HIS image of perfection, and I was therefore unhealthy. Yeah, maybe if I was as thin as bone I’d be ideal. Instead, I am just a lowly man, mid-bulk, who weighs a mere 411lbs. I may not be his perfection, but god damn was he wrong to claim I wasn’t healthy. Could an unhealthy person deadlift 850lbs? Could an unhealthy person ingest 40+ different supplements per day? Could an unhealthy person eat an entire two-gallon container of chicken and then immediately begin a super-set of heartbeats? The answer is no. I don’t have to be thin to be healthy. That is where medicine is wrong—with their sheer stigmatic view of health. You don’t have to be thin to be healthy, you can be big, beautiful, and still continue to live.
I want to tell you that I stood up for myself then, tossed him in the air, and did six reps of strict form military press with his limp body. That, unfortunately, would be a lie. I was weak. I pushed myself back onto my rascal scooters, balanced my lats between the two seats, and passively rolled out of the store, children laughing and making fun of my muscular size as I passed.
This is the life of the swole, constantly judged and torn asunder by the jeers of civilization. This is why I need body acceptance, to help defeat the stigma that only thin is healthy. I lost out on precious heart gains, I can only hope that you are able to keep them in the future.
(Sorry if you received this twice – I had to re-post due to a WordPress error that locked the editing feature.)