Dynamic Duo of Dysfunction

Once again, my demons have shown up in my living room. And they've shown up screaming.

As I write this, depression is opening its mouth once more, daring me to stick my head into it. Depression also has a sidekick who's very powerful. That sidekick is Perfectionism. Sticking my head into that mouth means giving myself a break, because tonight, I made a big mistake. Maybe I'm more afraid of that mouth than depression right now.

They're a rough Dynamic Duo of Dysfuntion, that pair. Because when I make a mistake, what can lead me into depression are the horrible things I say about myself, to myself. That kind of thinking is the root of many an evil. Even after all the work I've done, all the progress I've made, it's clear I have more to do. I mean, I know that. I'll always know that. I'll always have more to do. This isn't the type of thing I'm ever going to be "done" with. Anymore than I'll ever be "done" with working out, or meditating, or enlightenment. 

The universe has given me an opportunity for my rubber to meet the road. Another test. So far, I've met every challenge, I've met every fear, head on. I have not felt fragile, until right now. Suddenly, the voices are loud, and mean, and calling for my hide. The angry mob in my head are wielding clubs, and torches, and stones. And the fucked up thing is, they think they're helping me. "This pummeling is for your own good", they chant. "This will toughen you up". Yeah. That's worked so well for me before. 

Unlovable. Unacceptable. No good. A defective model. The neural pathways of Toxic Shame vie for the fuel they need to burn themselves deeper into me. To re-establish their status. All this, triggered by a very human error. Where's my self-love when I need it most? Like, right now. 

Okay demons, let's have some tea together, once more. Open your mouths wide. Because I'm coming in. Head fuckin' first. I'm not going to bed tonight until I do. So no uncaffinated jasmine sleepy time shit for you. Load up the high octane stuff. Because you're going to need it. And bring your A Game. 'Cuz I'm bringin' mine. 

What are you trying to teach me, demons? You didn't expect that question, did you? That's because I'm done fighting with you. Someone very wise once said to me, "When you throw punches, you get punches thrown back". And I'm tired of beating myself up. All that did was bring untold tons of pain and suffering. Are you reminding me, yet again, that harsh judgment of myself, of others, impedes my healing and my growth; that such judgment is a wall to connection? A wall to love?

Are you challenging me to love myself through a mistake? In the past, I've pretty much sucked at that. Are you testing my metal? Tell me. Because I'm listening. Which is something else you haven't got used to. I've been doing that for months now, and you're still surprised by it. Get used to it. There's a lot I need to learn, yes. But this is my fuckin' house. You can trash it, burn it, violate it in every way you can imagine. And I'm still gonna ask you to sit down and have tea with me. Maybe someday you'll get used to that. It would make life easier for all of us in here.

Maybe you're letting me know you haven't gone away. That you'll never go away. Because you're a part of me. And, as great as I've felt over the past few months, I can't ever forget that. And maybe I did, just a little. Maybe I'm guilty of some hubris. And maybe you're showing me how dangerous hubris can be.

I'm leaving here in a few days. I'm leaving a place I love. I'm leaving people I love. I'm leaving work I love. There's an awful lot of sadness inside because of that. Maybe you're reminding me to show it. Maybe you're reminding me not to stuff that sadness, that pain, that loss, that grief, like I did back in November. Maybe you're teaching me that that's not me anymore. And you're giving me the chance to prove it. To the only person I need to prove it to. Me. 

The same woman who warned of throwing punches also encouraged me to "Turn poison into medicine". And I'm doing that, right now. I see the value in my mistake. I get the lessons you've come to teach me. Thank you. We'll do this again some time, I'm sure. 

Now get the fuck out. I'm going to bed.

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights (and wrongs) reserved.

39 Days At Clint University (Body Addiction part 3)

The telling of our own story can be a sacred process. Whether we Write about it, Sing about it, Talk about it, Teach about it, Paint about it, or Fuck about it - which, heads up, lovers everywhere, we do all the time, whether we know it or not.

Telling our story becomes Sacred, in any endeavor, when we consciously communicate something deep about who we are. Because, when we consciously share a piece of ourselves, we create the potential to truly connect to someone else. And in that connection, in that vulnerability, we open up the potential to heal. And we all need healing. Because we are all in pain. We all have wounds. And we all want those wounds to stop bleeding.

There's magic in getting Yourself to the page, or the canvas, or the stage; there's magic in getting it out there, in any way you choose. The Magic is that, in that process, Your Journey crystallizes itself. It becomes clearer, more real, more accessible. Not only to others, but more crucially, to yourself. In the very telling of it, you Really Get It. It might be the only way you Really Get It. The art of digging deep into yourself, of putting your journey together, of synthesizing events, feelings, relationships, and thoughts, is itself positively transformative. 

As I write about the last six months of my life, I get the gift of embodying my own Hero's Journey in a way that would never happen if I didn't choose to express it. I share my tale in the hopes that it will move others, yes; that it may inspire, motivate, enlighten, or in any way benefit another person. But I primarily do it for me. Writing about it gives me the chance to pull it apart, to look at it, to understand it, to embody it, and to glean from it that which would never be possible without the act of having to communicate it.

There are times when I literally say to me myself "What the hell happened to me?". But, instead of coming form a place of self-judgment (which is often the case when we say those words), it comes from a place of empowerment. 

In residential treatment, I was looked upon as a leader, and indeed, was one. I was working on myself as hard as I could. I was totally into it. My energy was electric, my attitude infectious. I wore my desire for growth like a second skin that you could see, touch, taste, and smell. That actually disturbed some people at first, who said to me "When I first met you, I thought to myself, 'This guy can't be for real' ". But once they got to know me, they knew how real I was. How real my desire was. They got that my passion, that my love, was indeed genuine. They let their guard down, and we connected. 

I took the work as seriously as I've taken anything in my life. It was a conscious choice, but not a difficult one. Because I was desperate; my heart, mind, body, and soul all knew that, in order to kick out the jams of my own maladaptive thinking and dysfunctional behaviors, I had to get deadly serious about it. Because if I didn't, there was a chance that I would die. Maybe not literally, but figuratively. I'd be dead on the inside. As it was, I was close enough to the Grim Reaper Within. I didn't want an official house call. 

The whole experience of reaching my bottom, pulling myself back, and powerfully connecting to a entire community, has been profound. It is living testament, at a time when I needed it most, that I could be all of myself with a community of people who didn't yet know me, and be embraced, loved, and respected for all of me. I brought it all: the bright lights, the neon glow, the shining love, the huge heart, the deep thinker, the intelligent scholar, the very playful kid, the wild dude, the rocker musician, the vulnerable teddy bear, the maverick free spirit, the flawed substance abuser, the frightened & hurting little boy, the heartbroken lover, the powerful man.

My light shined very brightly, and I shared that light. Quite a turnaround from about six weeks before, on my birthday, one of the lowest point of my life, when my light was so dim a firefly would outshine it.

For the first time in my life, I fell in love with who I am. Warts and all. So did the people I was with. And it had nothing to do with how buff I was (because I was anything but). They didn't care what I looked like. Neither did I. They cared about who I was. About what I was. They responded to what I brought to life, from the inside out. They responded to what I brought to their life. They responded to how much I loved them. It was like being in 120 intimate love relationships at once. I cared so much about these people, and I showed it. They cared so much about me, and they showed it. We showed up for each other, dozens of times a day, for 39 days. They changed my life. And I changed theirs. 

Tell me that's not the most beautiful polygamy you could imagine. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Body Addiction (part 2)

It wasn't that I couldn't identify my positive qualities; it was that I had trouble owning them. I struggled with internalizing, and sometimes even believing, that I had an awful lot to offer. I didn't know it in my heart. How could I, when my core belief was that I was a defective model of humankind? There were plenty of times that I felt good, or even great, about myself; but, like clouds of smoke, such self love was fleeting and ethereal. I was operating on a wispy foundation instead of a solid one. I had to become my own rock. 

Residential treatment felt like a warm, loving soup with many ingredients, some of which I could taste, and some of which, although I knew they were there, could not. Whenever I was asked by the staff what was working for me, I would reply "All of it". I wasn't being smug. Truth is, I wasn't exactly sure what was happening, but I sure as shit knew something was. The mix of group therapy, individual therapy, Integrative Therapies (EMDR, Somatic Experiencing, Acupuncture), learning about my Central Nervous System's maladaptive stress response, Depression/Anxiety Education, Trauma Education, Meditation, and the the loving support of an amazing community, (to name just some of what I got) all worked synergistically to start moving mountains inside of me.

Most important was my absolute commitment and dedication to the work. I put everything I had into everything that was offered.  At lectures - there were lots, and I never missed one - I took lots of notes, asked lots of questions, and often shared about my own experience. It felt like I was back in school, which I was. This time, I was going for a PhD in Me. 

My approach from the get go was that of a rabid student, starving for knowledge. I always did well in school, especially in higher education, and I ate the whole experience up like a ravenous wolverine that hadn't eaten all winter (which kinda describes how I looked, and felt). I applied myself as if my life depended on it. Because it did. 

I said "Yes" to everything, even stuff I didn't understand, thought was useless, or didn't particularly want to do. I let go of resistance and jumped in the deep end, even if the water was freakin' frigid. I got something out of everything. I surrendered to the process, figuring the people running the place knew more about this shit than I did. I trusted. And then I worked my ass off; although when I entered treatment, down to 159 pounds, I didn't have much of an ass left.

I didn't like how I looked; my other coping strategies had been removed from my environment; and I was absolutely determined to leave treatment in a better place than I had ever been. Because of all that, things started shifting in me right away.

The one thing I didn't have was hope. Well, my heart had hope, because the heart's hope is eternal. The heart can be so much smarter than the mind. My mind had grown very cynical of ever being able to let go of the negative self talk that was railroading my life. But my heart remained as optimistic as ever. My biggest problem was my mind; and for years I had been going to my mind for the solution. I mean, Duh. That's like pouring gasoline on a fire to put it out. 

That said, my mind does play a big part in my healing. I found the lectures fascinating. The information provided a solid mental and intellectual container for all the work I was doing. Learning about all this stuff helped my mind let go. Everything I was hearing about trauma, depression, anxiety, the central nervous system, stress response, and mindfulness, made so much sense to me, and was so very representative of my own life long experience, that my mind bought it, completely. Once that happened, my head only played ball when it had to; the rest of the time, it stayed on the sidelines. It stopped working overtime to protect me.

That's an absolutely critical point. I'm what's known, clinically, as "Hyper-Vigilant". That means I'm subconsciously always diligently scanning the environment for potential threats, for danger, even when I'm in safe environments. We all do this to some degree, as part of our natural survival instinct. But for some of us, that activity has become maladaptive; it's literally in constant overdrive. Brain wave activity is a tell tale indicator, and they can see that in Bio-Neurofeedback (another modality I received in treatment). It's like this: all kids are active. But some kids are literally, hyper-active. And that causes problems.

Growing up, I was surrounded by bullshit. I was surrounded by lies. And my environments often didn't feel emotionally stable. At home. In school. Unstable environments and bullshit often ended up hurting me. Being a very intuitive and very sensitive kid, I picked up 'lots of channels", and I could smell bullshit. And it always felt like the proverbial other shoe could always drop at any second, and often did. But when that bullshit isn't validated as bullshit; when I'm told I'm safe when I don't feel safe; when I'm told that the lies are the truth, I start questioning my own experience. I stopped believing myself. And I stopped trusting that I'm ever emotionally safe (not to mention I stopped trusting anybody, period). Then, when I constantly got burned by lies, half truths, bullshit, and emotionally unstable environments, I became overly concerned with protecting myself from all of that. I experienced life as dangerous. So I adapted, or maladapted, to feel safer. I learned to always be on guard. That creates an over active mind and an over active central nervous system. And that creates chronic stress, anxiety, and some other dysfunctional behaviors.

As I write this, I realize that there's a "Part 3" here, so I'm gonna stop now and ask you to join me for it. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Hitting It Hard

To say that I hit the ground running when I entered treatment would be a gross understatement; it's more like I hit the ground with warp engines on my heels. The very first day, somebody asked me, "Where do you get all your energy? You're here for depression, right?". My answer came out almost before she was through talking; "I'm so ready for this shit."

Getting myself to fully commit to something can be a painstaking internal process. I have the ability to see a lot of the angles; hence I naturally see the alternatives, the myriad of possibilities. It makes me a fantastic mediator, because not only can I see both sides of the issue, I see sides that may or may not even be there. I don't see a box. I see a whole little universe. 

Once I do fully commit, however, I run hard, and I run deep. I run with a passion, an intensity, and a fury that can inspire, or move, or even alienate some. I'm not for everybody. Jump on board, watch from the sidelines, or get out of the way. That's just how I roll. 

Most of my troubles around commitment center around going into something half-assed, which I can also be guilty of. What I've learned is, if I am going into something half-assed, I need to slow the process down; to re-asses whether I want to be in it at all. That wasn't the case when I decided to get help for my life long battle with depression, anxiety, and negative self-talk. Like cliff diving, I jumped off, head first, trusting the divine, with an open heart and an open mind.

Being so ready, so open, and having nothing to hang my hat on but myself literally forced me to do it different; It was indeed The Gift of Desperation, and so much more than that. Let's use the analogy of an intimate relationship, from a heterosexual male perspective (the only one I have any authority on, although I feel this works across any and all sexual preference contexts); She may be the right woman; but is it the right time? Well, treatment was the right option. And, Fuckin' A, this was the right time. 

My formidable defenses weren't just down, they weren't even functioning. How much more ready could I be? For the first time in my life.....In My Life.....I was miserable living in a place, my place mind you, but a place I didn't want to live. The holidays, usually a very festive time for me, had only heightened my loneliness. My work on my book, the only purpose I had found in a long time, had ground to a halt. I had lost the only woman I had ever felt a truly magical connection with. A big chunk of my future felt scuttled. I had been abusing substances, daily, for four months to stave off depression. If not now, then when? I mean, really. What the fuck more was it gonna take? I had completely lost my sense of self. This was my bottom: My Nuclear Emotional and Spiritual Holocaust. 

And, despite my extreme vulnerability and burgeoning rawness, I retained some of my horse sense. My well developed intelligence and analytical acumen was alive and well in certain areas, and it was actually communicating with my heart. I sensed my intuition and trusted it. So I experienced The Holy Trinity of Decision Convergence: Heart. Mind. Gut. All telling me the same thing. All telling me exactly what to do and exactly where to go.

This was not a path that I would have willingly chosen. But, life is smarter than I am. It always gives me what I need, not always what I want. I would never have chosen this path of pain. And yet, I know, it is what's best for me. Not because I know the answers. But because I know the fuckin' questions. To quote Bono; "We thought we had the answers, It was the questions we had wrong". 

Not anymore. I was finally asking the right questions. And I was finally looking in the right places, both inside myself and inside the right environment, to find the answers.

©2107 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Body Addiction (part 1)

Over-Identification with anything in our life, be it our job, our looks, our mind, our status, our.........pick your poison.....is a prescription for suffering. For years, I over-identified with my body and my looks as a big source of my self-esteem, my masculinity, my confidence, and my MoJo. I was aware I was doing it, but I couldn't stop. It was, in every sense of the word, an addiction.

Hanging my hat on how I looked grew from being a fat kid, being teased for it, and having to buy special pants ("Huskies", a great marketing name for kids with expanding waistlines). At an early age, I developed a poor body image. I wasn't a fat kid for very long, between about the ages of eight and twelve. Unfortunately, those are probably the absolute worst years to pack on pounds, for a number of reasons. 

First of all, it's around then that the opposite sex stops becoming the enemy. Actually, I developed crushes on girls from as early as I can remember. I had the hots for my second grade teacher, Ms. Lindsey, Big Time. One of my babysitters, when I was about seven or eight, had the pleasure of having her long ponytail stroked by me whenever she would let me. She even let me tie her up in her bikini on the beach, and I wouldn't let her go until she promised my twin brother and I ice cream (I was a naughty, kinky outlaw from jump street).

Biologically, it's also at around that age that we gain more access to our pre-frontal cortex (the "upstairs brain") which is the part of the brain that does the thinking, is logical, and sees the world more for how it is. Although we have more access to it, the pre-frontal cortex is still very immature, and it starts making connections between itself and the lymbic system (the "downstairs brain", or the emotional center) that are't real. Like "I'm fat, it doesn't feel good, I must be defective". These neural pathways are very strong, and it takes a lot of work redirecting them when we get older. But if you put the time and effort in, it gets done. Meditation, Somatic Experiencing, EMDR, and a host of other techniques are making it possible to get to the root of the trauma and create new neural pathways; to basically re-wire our brain.

The bad timing double whammy regarding biological brain developmental and the shifting sands of social engagement meant that for me to get fat at that age had the potential to cause the most damage to my fragile ten year old ego. And it did. The scars of being a fat kid have stayed with me all through adulthood.

There are gifts in that wound, however. It motivated me to change my body once I learned how. It gave me the discipline and the motivation to work hard and persistently to get and stay in great shape; to have a physique that looks better than most men half my age. I doubt this would be the case if it wasn't for the pain I felt being a fat kid and never wanting to feel that pain again.

When I entered into treatment, I didn't look very good. I was thin, twenty pounds lighter than where I looked and felt best. I looked drawn, having lost a lot of muscle and too much weight in my face. For a man who could be guilty of hanging his hat on how he looked to define his sense of self, my coatrack had completely disappeared. I wasn't fat, but I certainly didn't like how I looked.

This was a blessing. No, I didn't like how I looked. I saw that fact in the mirror every morning. But I was so ready for something new; I knew that way of over-defining myself just did not work anymore. Before I even entered treatment, something in me knew I could not keep doing it that way. Something in me knew that I was slowly killing myself, and this fixation, this addiction, to how I looked had something to do with that.

The universe had severely limited my options. I couldn't go to my body or my looks to bolster my self esteem. I couldn't use substances to run away from the pain. I couldn't turn to an intimate relationship to get a sense that I'm indeed worthy of love. All I had was relatively emaciated me. 

But, as I soon found out, that was more than enough.

Join me for part two.

©2107 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.