Thanks, ricochet and nogyne29. Glad to see that I'm not the only guy in his 30's dealing with this. Makes me feel better.
I guess I should give a little more insight into my history and pain with gynecomastia, although there's no way this'll be all inclusive.
I've dealt with this affliction ever since I can remember. I was fairly “normal' in my early years, but, like most sufferers, developed the problems when I started to hit puberty, right around the seventh grade. As a matter of fact, I remember my eight grade year, when some of my fellow classmates would laugh at me, making comments about the T-shirts I'd wear and how the lettering on them would appear to be raised in certain parts because of the gynecomastia (i.e. instead of “San Francisco Forty-Niners” it would be “San FRANcisco Forty-NINErs”). As a result, I developed the traditional weapon for a gynecomastic sufferer and began to wear only clothes that would help hide my problem: baggy, dark colored, usually with some heavy logo or lettering that went the entire width of the shirt (if it was a T-shirt) or dual-breasted pockets (if it was a buttoned down shirt).
Eventually, as I went further into puberty, everything began to work itself out. Towards the eleventh grade, I lost a lot of the proverbial 'baby fat' and started to appear like I had, if anything, a muscular chest. The gynecomastia was still there, but much, much less pronounced. I was even able to have a fairly normal lifestyle, being in relationships with girls, some of those relationships even being sexual.
However, the psychological and emotional damage from my early puberty was severe and in my mind's eye, I was still that fat, ugly 12 year old, even though I didn't look anything like him and my gynecomastia was barely noticeable. To me, the gynecomastia was a huge neon sign, nailed to the middle of my chest, drawing everyone's attention to the fact that I looked like a half-girl and it ate away at me.
As the years went on, I followed the path that so many of us walk as we get older: I gained weight. And with the additional weight came the gynecomastia, full force and for all to see. It became a vicious circle, too: I'd gain some weight, which would make my gynecomastia more pronounced, which would get me depressed, causing me to eat more, which would bring on more weight, making my gynecomastia more pronounced...see the cycle?
To make matters worse, as time has gone on and the psychological aspect has become more ingrained, I've developed some interesting side effects. One of the first ones to emerge was sweating, caused directly from worrying about how I looked to others and what they were saying about it. Know the old commercial saying of “Never let them see you sweat”? Well, for me, it happens all the time and it's emotionally devastated my life.
Another problem has been an onset of claustrophobia. Because of the gynecomastia, I feel extremely self-conscious and worry about what others see, think, and say about it, which causes me to sweat. When I sweat, I don't like to be around people. Over the years, it's developed to the point of where I don't like to go into a room of people, I can't stand to be in a crowded elevator, and I avoid get-togethers, like reunions, parties, and social events. I get nervous, irritable, and rarely stay longer than the absolute bare minimum.
One thing to point out, though, is that I don't usually have to deal with the claustrophobia when I'm around family. I think that's because I know them and they're not an 'unknown' variable, meaning that I feel comfortable around them and don't expect the judgement I receive from others. Doesn't mean I'm immune, because, even with them, I still deal with the sweating and psychological aspect. It simply isn't nearly as bad with my family as it is with strangers or people at work, that's all.
I know that, in the end, this is mostly my fault. True, I was born with gynecomastia and nothing can change that. However, I'm the one who allowed this body to get to where it is. I'm the one who decided to give in to the eating and let food be my comfort and my enemy. I'm the one who decided to sit on the couch and not exercise. I'm the one who allowed, over the course of 15 years, this condition to dominate my world and dictate how I live my life. No one forced me to be so damn passive, so, in the end, the blame lies with me.
I have so much to say, so much I need to get off my chest (no pun intended), but I'm exhausted right now. Writing just this little bit down has emotionally drained me, so I'm going to stop for now and pick up at a later time.
It's amazing how much of a bigger picture you can get when you face your problems and write them down. Kind of breaks apart that enclosed cocoon you're used to living in...
Thanks-----Warlord