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    Game On


    Watching the last Super Bowl, with my beloved Patriots down by a whopping twenty-five points, mid-way through the third quarter, I remember checking in with myself. I asked myself "Why haven't you given up?". I couldn't answer that question. I couldn't answer "why". So, I asked myself a question I could answer. I asked myself "Have you given up?". No. No, I hadn't. 

    In that moment, I knew something I couldn't articulate; but not being able to articulate it didn't diminish the power of it's conviction. The whole experience was quite familiar to me. As a child, I was often aware of things I could not articulate. I was an incredibly sensitive, aware, emotional, astute, deep feeling, deep thinking, little fucker. I felt like I was picking up 100 channels while all of my peers were picking up less than ten. I constantly experienced and felt so much that was far beyond my capability to describe, and it frustrated the fuck out of me. Sometimes, I still feel that way today. As an adult, I've gotten better at managing it. Not always. Just sometimes.

    Watching the Patriots get dismantled in the last Super Bowl, I was aware of an inner belief, that, fuck me running, I could not describe. I just sure as shit knew it was there. And I sure as shit knew I had to hold onto it. Don't ask me why. I don't have a clue. Nor do I care. When you know something that deep; in your bones, in your cells, in your molecules, in your atoms, in your quarks; when you know it there, you are willing to bet your entire experience of life on it. Because, without your own very personal experience of life to call yours, what do you have? Nothing. Absolutely Shit Ass Nothing. So Life becomes worth that. Every time.

    Fast forward to my life today. For most of the past year, not long after The Super Bowl, in fact, I have been in treatment. For depression. For Anxiety. For Trauma. For the maladaptive behaviors that are a result of such afflictions. For addiction. I just relapsed, again, failed a piss test, and got discharged from my last facility.

    And yet, here I am. I have not given up. I know something inside of me that I can not explain, that I can not describe. Just like when I was a kid. Just like when I watched the last Super Bowl. Maybe it's as basic as survival. Maybe it's about rising up against something that is still trying to kill me. And I won't let it. Depression tried. Trauma tried. Addiction is trying. Hell, my own brother and sister tried to kill me emotionally when they sued me. They all failed. I'm still here. Fuck You.

    This whole experience must be positioned as fuel that propels my life. I will take all of the agony, all of the failure, all of the doubts, and questions, and sleepless nights, and desperation, and tears, and I will repurpose them for my own growth.

    I was a child of the suburbs. I have lived a very cushy, privileged life. Yet, I am in touch with my Inner Street Fighter. I've known him, I've felt him, often before. He's helped me survive. That's his job. He loves me up when he has too, and he kicks my ass when he needs to. He's been with me this whole trip.

    Game On.


     ©2018 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

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