Diet Hard.

There are many joyous aspects of my childhood; the independent thought aiding lack of structure. The sandwich of seven male siblings teaching diplomatic social interaction. And a disparity in schooling systems showing my eyes how the diversity of culture and class, really made no difference in what makes a human being, a human being - to name a few. Of course, there are elements viewed with dread; parental negligence. The forcing of Pripsen powders down my throat for the worms I contracted every couple of months. And my Step-Father's ear destroying love of Shakin' Stevens and pre-sixties Country music - as examples.

As time progresses, however, I have learned to both accept and adapt the majority of these biological destroyers, as positive lessons in humility; the parental negligence taught me nothing in life is ever personal. Downing the Pripsen allowed me to appreciate every ingested fresh glass of water and soluble tablet. And those cheesy pop sensibilities mixed with the dreary tones of southern red-neck warblers, affords an acceptance of many facets in the broad spectrum of recorded sound. As with the majority of humanity, however, there remains one fraction of childhood which continues to strike an emotional chord on a regular basis; for me, it wasn't psychology, or love, or a desire to prove... it was food.

My parents were - within the confines of a nation such as England, poor bastards; a mixture of terminal unemployment and lack of knowledge toward nutrition and exercise, created a regular cocktail of saturated fats and empty calories. Such delicacies as Kellogs Frosties in full-fat milk with a spoonful of sugar to spike those insulin levels a little higher, ten packets of crisps and five chocolate bars washed down with a two-litre bottle of Dr. Peeper, Penguin Bars, Swiss Rolls, Fried Egg and Chips, and whatever culinary crap Iceland were selling at a reduced rate - it wasn't good for a growing boy; fruit and veg were practical immigrants in my household. For want of a better word, my diet for the first seventeen years of existence, was shit.

At the age of eighteen - now obese, lazy, and staring down the barrel of a future as a bantamweight Rik Waller, I took it upon myself to get healthy; gone were the 1am trips for Star Bars and Spicy Monster Munch, the sugary cereals of morning, and constant barrage of fried take-outs, replaced by Wholemeal Pastas, Tuna, Bran Flakes, and all forms of alternative healthy produce. Trouble was, as I was burning energy at such a record rate, as well as not really knowing what I should eat as much as what I shouldn't, most of the substitutes became carbohydrates by proxy - and anyone who has trained knows, when it comes to feeding the body a quick boost of energy, nothing beats them complex carbs.

For the past twelve years - from this diet, I have lived a very active, quite driven lifestyle, yet have always felt somewhat sluggish and heavy - believing it being down to the diet of youth, I begrudgingly learned to accept it. Ten days ago, after a hefty five months of carb-loaded strength training - in order to replenish myself of the muscle tone and fitness lost through my own personal devils rectum; known commonly as the year 2011, I could sense the cardio machines awaiting my glorious return of intensity. Finally listening to my girlfriend after two years of pushing the idea into my head, and realizing I was getting too large for my clothes, I decided to partake in an intense low-carbohydrate diet. Not expecting anything, the results have been incredible - I have hit ketosis, and am cutting body-fat like the Terminator on acid; I finally feel a level of fitness I never felt my young diet would allow me to attain.

Now I live like Tarzan; if Tarzan used Whey Protein, lived in Edgware, and was bold in his opinions, that is. I exist on a diet containing a carbohydrate fuelled breakfast of Bran Flakes. Then it is Eggs, Fish, Cottage Cheese, Fruits, Vegetables, Lean Meats, and all forms of a protein central lifestyle. Naturally, I will slowly even out levels over the coming weeks, but my body has never felt so light nor had so much energy, or my mental state feel such stability; the crashes of lowered insulin levels no longer affecting daily moods. In essence, I am feeding my body the foods nature intended it to digest, and in return, nature bows to me in a smile of pleasurable gratitude - I now attain a richer appreciation for society's oft-forgotten tree-hugger; not that I would ever tie myself to one.

So there is light at the end of a very long, arduous tunnel. And while I would love to invent a time-machine, sending me back to the nineteen eighties - then quietly shove cauliflowers, spinach, and yams into my mouth as I sleep, I know this is probably unlikely to happen. But after only nine days of saying adieu to the heavy handed carbohydrate diet of my twenties, maybe, just maybe, I guess the impossible is possible - when you realise magic is just born from the sciences we don't really understand. I have finally shed a monkey off my back I thought would always follow me around.

Now all I need to figure out, is how to wash all those Eastenders episodes out of my brain; a whole other form of diet I never wanted...


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