I Can’t Tell If I’m Bulking or Depressed

There’s a fine line between “gaining mass” and “giving up.”
I walk that line every night with a full jar of peanut butter and the self-assurance of a man who thinks macros is short for macaroni.

I told my friend I’m bulking.
He said, “Cool. What’s your calorie target?”
I said, “More.”

Technically, yes — I’m lifting.
Three times a week. Maybe two. Okay, once.
But I think about lifting constantly, which should count for something in the realm of spiritual hypertrophy.

I read somewhere that bulking is just a caloric surplus during progressive overload.
But what if the overload is emotional?
And what if the surplus is me standing at the fridge at midnight, staring into a void filled with shredded cheese and questions about my father?

People say winter is the best time to bulk. It’s nature’s hoodie season.
No one sees what’s happening under the layers. You could be growing. You could be decaying. You could be slowly transforming into a man-shaped beanbag.

I track my progress with a system I call “shirt tightness.”
If it’s tight in the chest: gains.
If it’s tight in the stomach: shadows.

And here’s the kicker — I’m not even sure who I’m bulking for.
My gym crush hasn’t made eye contact since April, and my mirror just tilts slightly downward now as if even it is saying, “You good, man?”

Still, I persist.
Because quitting means admitting I might just be… soft. Not in body, but in will. And that feels worse than the bloat.

So tonight I’ll eat a chicken breast the size of a toddler’s forearm and tell myself it’s working.
Because if it’s not a bulk…
it’s just sadness with seasoning.