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.

Mother Kym (part 2)

Lots of kids are bullied. I sure as shit was. It was worse than a mind fuck. It was a heart and soul fuck. Not only did I not know, as a child, how to defend myself, verbally, physically, or emotionally, but once the event happened, bringing it to mom made it worse. So I just stopped bringing it. Being completely ill equipped to handle such a thing, the event would stay with me and rattle around inside of me, indefinitely. I would go to my head and try to work it out. That’s certainly one reason I can be in my head so much if I’m not being mindful. I learned to do that very young, and those neural pathways got forged in steel.

With my EMDR therapist, we did an exercise where I recreate a specific, shitty, traumatic bullying experience. But I pick another woman to be my mom (my cousin Kym, the best mother I could possibly imagine), because my real mom wasn't able to give me what I needed. Then, I recreate the experience the way I would have wanted it to go down. 

It looks like this: 

I get physically bullied by an older kid at school and bring it home to Mother Kym. She consoles me. Wipes away my tears. Listens to me. Holds me. Loves me up. Makes me stop feeling bad about myself. She tells me what a wonderful little kid I am, and tells me she knows how awful this must feel. She gives me some ice cream and we start talking about something else, something I’m really interested in, like dinosaurs (I still find them endlessly fascinating). Then she calls the parents of the jerk-off that did this to me, and tells them, respectfully but in no uncertain terms, that their son is to leave me the hell alone.

Then, she teaches me how to kick some ass.

After four weeks of involving dad and other people to teach me what to do, I approach the bully in school. Since Mother Kym made the phone call, I’ve been on the receiving end of countless taunts from the bully and his cronies for involving her. But I’ve been able to withstand that, because Mother Kym and I have processed it, and I have some new resiliency regarding verbal abuse. I believe that kids have to fight their own battles. But the kid needs help. The kid has to be thought how to do that, by adults. It doesn’t happen by magic.

The bully tells me he’s not gonna apologize, and starts taunting me again. I ask him once more. He laughs. Then, I do the last thing he expects; I smack him right in the kisser. Hard. In front of all his friends. I’ve been practicing this for a month, so I know how and where to land a punch. He goes down like a sack of bricks, holding his bloody nose and bloody mouth, yelping like a dog. I say to him, “Don’t ever fuck with me, or my friends, again.” Then I walk away. Scene (that’s a theatre term for “End”).

I’m not a proponent of violence. However, I believe, in certain situations, you have to make a statement. A bold, loud as fuck statement; one that echoes long after it’s made. A statement that brings peace, self-assurance, and safety to the one who made it. This is that situation. This is that statement. In the world of elementary school, no one is likely to fuck with me again. I feel safe. Something I never actually felt, ever, as a kid.

Therapeutically, combined with EMDR, this stuff works because it powerfully forges new neural pathways that I build on. I immediately felt better after the session. I often know how to appropriately stand up for myself as an adult. But that doesn’t heal the original wound until I create something new around that specific trauma from childhood. And as long as the original wound is still there, there’s still the possibility of maladaptive behavior associated with events that trigger it. For example, nowadays when my blood does get up, I can sometimes act inappropriately and blow my top. Or, sometimes I’ll freeze, because my central nervous system shuts down. Those responses are a result of trauma. And neither works. 

The man I’m becoming is completely secure in his ability to act appropriately and take care of himself, and anybody he's with, if necessary, in any situation. It's also important I give fitting breadth to the word "appropriate"; because it's not completely objective. It's a space on a continuum, not an absolute point. Not recognizing that doesn't honor my own standards, values, and unconventional nature. If I'm present and in the flow of my own personal power, I'll choose behavior that serves the situation and myself. In an extreme example, as an adult, I know how to fight, but it won’t come to that, unless I'm physically threatened and have no other options. Because, otherwise, I can’t be bothered with your bullshit. I rise above it, because I am above it. I don’t care about you being a jackass or trying to pick a fight anymore then I care about a tiny spider crawling across my foot.

And that’s all I got to say about that…….for now.

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

Leviathan

My recovery from trauma and depression, and all the maladaptive behaviors that go with it, is akin to a deep dive into a black hole. I wasn’t sure what was at the bottom of that hole, but I was willing to jump. Because if I stayed where I was, at the precipice of that dark, cavernous maw, my life wasn’t going to get any better. In fact, it was going to get worse.

So I took a leap of faith. The ride down has been beautiful; also painful, and the most challenging thing I have ever done. I made great progress. I got better. I healed. I inspired people and impacted lives. I kept going, and the deeper I dove, the better I got. 

Recently, I had a breakdown. Like I hit a sharp lip on the way down the hole.

And fuck, does it hurt.

It’s battered me like nothing else has yet. It’s bloodied me something fierce. It’s opened up my deepest wounds; wounds so old, I can’t remember where I got most of them. Wounds that I knew about, but that only bled occasionally. Now I’m hemorrhaging. Now, I have no choice but to heal these wounds. 

I’ve spent most of my adult life either running from, or bandaging, these deep, massive cuts. I, foolishly perhaps, thought they had scarred over enough so that, maybe, they wouldn’t open up so bad again that they would bleed all over my life.

I was wrong. 

Now, I’m up against it. Up against that which I knew, eventually, I would have to face. I’ve opened a wound that I knew I would have to heal.

The core wound is Abandonment. Specifically, early childhood abandonment. And all the other wounds it creates.

In technical terms, it comes under the umbrella of “Developmental Relational Trauma”. It happens early in life and continues to get reenacted. I mention that because, a lot, if not most of us, have this. Some of us have these cuts much deeper than others. Some of us, for a myriad of reasons, aren’t as effected by them. We all develop coping mechanisms; some, more effective than others. In adulthood, this trauma manifests itself most intensely in intimate love relationships, and the way we attach to others in those relationships.

This is my Core Trauma. I thought I had done enough work, picked up enough tools, and enough skill with those tools, to deal with this one more effectively.

Wrong again.

So I have to dive deeper still. Into the very darkest depths of this abyss. I have more diving to do. I’ve got more work, to do. 

I knew I wasn’t at the bottom yet. I just didn’t think I was this far from the bottom. Maybe I’m not. Maybe it just feels that way right now. Doesn’t really matter. Because I’m not stopping, no matter what. 

I could look at this like I’m even more fucked up than I thought. There are moments, I still do. But that sentiment won’t last. Because if there is one thing I have been, through all of this, is tenacious. I’ve faced every fear with a voracity I didn’t know I had. 

I will eventually see the opening of this gash as another amazing gift. I will get through this the way I have gotten through everything else I’ve faced over the past three months. I will come out of this with more healing, more growth, and a higher version of myself. This, just like everything else I’ve faced, will contribute to my being far more free.

But right now, it just fuckin’ hurts.

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

The Fuckin' Good News

I’ve hit a bump in the road. And that bump is me.

A wise man told me that he starts his day by looking in the mirror, pointing at himself, and saying “YOU are the biggest problem you’re gonna face all day”. 

Ain’t that the truth.

Getting smack dab back into the real world has proved more jarring than I anticipated. 

Currently, I'm an absolute raw nerve. That’s not a bad thing. But it's very challenging. Sometimes I don’t know where to put, or what to do with, all the raw emotional energy that seems to be constantly charging through my body like sizzling electric current. I’m still learning to live life from this other side.

Before treatment, there was always an undercurrent of sadness in me, no matter what. Sometimes it was barely perceivable, but I was constantly aware of it, like a stone in my shoe. That’s not there anymore. And that’s a bloody miracle. Another thing that’s stopped are the barrage of negative thoughts and voices that used to constantly race through my head. That’s an even bigger miracle. Both of these miraculous events have me considering petitioning for Sainthood. Yeah. That would fly. 

My heart has always been huge. I’ve always been sensitive. I feel very deeply. And now, there’s so much more space for all of that. Nature abhors a vacuum, so, that space is now filled with even more emotional energy. More feeling. More love. More sensitivity. More everything. I’m still navigating my way through that. Still learning how to manage it. 

That’s truly a great thing. I know it’s improved my writing, not to mention, well, my entire fucking life. Everything feels more vibrant. Everything looks different, tastes different, smells different, feels different. The colors of life are screaming at me, even more than before.  It’s sounds are clearer, louder, more beautiful. As an artist, the potential to translate all of that into my creative endeavors is positively delicious. 

Instead of going directly from my transitional living space in LA back home to Boston with an after care plan in place (which is normal protocol), I went to Phoenix to hang out a bit. Yes I know. Far be it from me to do ANYTHING according to protocol. That maverick approach, however, does not always serve me. As we shall see. 

Before I left Los Angeles, I knew I would be going back there to take care of some business and do at least one more week of treatment. What I didn’t know was what these two weeks in Phoenix would be like. Or what I would be like, when I returned.  

Well, now I know. And there’s Good News. And there’s Bad News. 

Bad News first. I’ve always been a “Bad News First” guy. It suits me. When I boxed in college, I was a pretty damn nasty counter puncher. That means I will take a punch (bad news) to give a punch (good news). I have a good chin, so I could take a hard shot. Then I could nail you with one of mine. The tough part about that approach, however, is that you can get battered and bloodied in the process (you should have seen me after a few of my fights). I’ll get my licks in, but I’ll take some hard knocks to do it.

Being here in Phoenix for two weeks, I’ve taken a step or two backwards. I’ve lost a little bit of ground; slipped into some old maladaptive behaviors. Gotten some blood on my chin. Split my lip. Maybe even broken my nose. For the fifth time (the first four times were literal, not figurative).

The Good News is that none of this negates any of the progress I’ve made, or diminishes any of the work I’ve done. In fact, it clarifies, it reinforces, the shit that I still need to get. Despite the fact that I’ve done nothing short of change my life, I’ve still got a lot to learn. I will always still have a lot to learn. That’s My Life Path. Even though I’ve come home to myself, I’m still getting used to the place. It’s a big house. Actually, it’s a freakin’ mansion. 

And, I still have be on top of my ego. Literally. There’s a BDSM term, “Topping From The Bottom”. It means that, in sexual role playing power exchange scenarios, the person who is submissive, the “bottom”, is still trying to control, or “top”, the scene. Usually because they have serious control issues, and can’t let someone else take the reins, even when they have agreed to it. That’s kinda like My Ego. He’s a total control freak. And He thinks he knows everything. He does not. Arrogant Motherfucker. 

The process of recovery from mood disorder, from anything, is not a linear one. It’s bumpy, messy, beautiful, really. I have seen, I have experienced, so many people I love, change through this process. It fills my heart. I have been a part of their journey, and they have been a part of mine. We have become intertwined in a way that nobody who has not been through it will ever truly get. Nonetheless, we will share our story. Because sharing our story makes this planet a better one. Sharing the magic we’ve been through can help the lives of everyone who listens, so much better.

And that’s the Fuckin’ Good News. 

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

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.