Steriods, Diabetes, and Different Interpretations

When I was 14, my father enrolled us in a family membership at Gold's Gym. My oldest brother, Darrell, was living in London, completing his time with the Air Force. It was just me, Ira, and my dad who were part of the membership. My mother was busy trying to figure out how to keep her struggling business alive (she never found its pulse), so she declined the invitation.

Ira was struggling himself. He was veering away from the sports track in school (football and wrestling), and began leaning more toward the tough crowd. More specifically, the guys who smoked, drank, and did other illicit things.

My dad wanted to protect his kids, keep them from getting deeper in trouble, so he joined the gym. This was the second time that my dad turned to weight lifting as a way to connect with his children. Years before, he had purchased a membership at the Nautilus Health Club. I was too young to participate. We were told that my too young muscles could not sustain endurance training. I had to go with everyone when they worked out, but I had to sit in the lobby and wait.

The only benefit of the entire situation was the mini cans of orange and pineapple juice the gym offered its members. I sat in the lobby and drank my fill of the chilled juices. Sometimes I'd drink one of each. Other times I'd mix them, creating my own orange-pineapple cocktail.

Gold's Gym was a godsend for me. I was a Freshman in high school. An awkward age. I wasn't yet ready to declare myself part of a particular crowd, not that any were having me, and my body wasn't fully matured yet. Hitting the weights was one of the best paths my father led me toward.

For the first few weeks, all three of us went on a regular basis. Eventually, Ira dropped from the rotation. He took a job at Waccamaw Pottery, met a girl, and found other priorities. My dad lost interest too. He worked as a baggage handler for American Airlines. He lifted heavy weights all day. The gym was more like work for him than exercise. My dad did, however, become my faithful driver, six days a week, until I got my driver's license.

The gym became my extra curricular activity, but with it came the pressure of doing steroids. At first, I ignored the lure of the drug. I wanted to build muscle naturally, not by sticking myself with needles or swallowing a variety of pills.

Genetics, however, were not on my side. I decided to take weight lifting to another level: competitive bodybuilding. I signed up for the 1986 Teenage Mr. Chicagoland contest, and began my two year love affair with steroids.

It started with pills--Anavar--and then quickly went to the injectable form. During the off season, I'd take the drugs that added strength and muscle. At my highest, I was 200 pounds (on a 5'4" frame). During competition season, I took trimming drugs. Ones that were supposed to make me more cut. I was cheating and figured if I hurt anyone, it was only myself.

In reality, when you hurt someone, it's most often people you don't realize you are hurting. You are so wrapped up in your own life, that you never recognize the path you may be paving for others.

In my case, it was Ira. He's always been on the heavy side. When we were kids, he was sometimes be mistaken for a girl. Not only because of the long hair he preferred to wear, but also because of the man (or maybe it's the boy) boobs he developed. Weight lifting was something Ira was interested in. But when he saw his younger brother making much better progress than he was, he simply gave up. He had no idea I was injecting myself with Decca Durabolin every week. He had no idea I was lying and stealing money to feed my addiction. He had no idea I was cheating.

So, he simply gave up. He made the decision not to try because I was so far ahead of him. As I continued to get bigger and build muscle, Ira continued to get bigger but added fat.

Fitness is still a large part of my life. I workout 5-6 times a week. It's been something I have done for 25 years. Two of them involved steroids, but still.

Ira has never been able to bounce back into health, ever. He's still overweight, doesn't exercise, and has diabetes. It pains me to think that this is all because of me. Because I chose to take a shortcut at 16. Because I gave into the misconception that it was easier to make gains by shooting drugs.

Different interpretations.