Tag Archives: Anger

Mom


You were the one who first broke my heart.
It was because of you I learned to make pain an art.
I’m the light, but I live in the dark.
I’m the light, but I live in the dark.
I never knew I needed love until I ached,
Until I was shaped by every escape.
In kindergarten, I dropped many tears
On the pages of my homework and always
Handed it in without a world of care.
I never knew I needed to be loved until I saw
everyone else’s parents loved them back, in awe.
In awe, I was. In awe I was because I saw.
I carried around anger like my lifeline.
And I never held it against the divine.
And I never questioned if I was good enough.
I was, despite the hefty handcuffs.
I vowed to not be like you in so many ways.
I’ve set blaze to many things under your name.

And I still don’t have a heart the way I ought to.
And I sit facing entrances, never giving my back to a view.
And many of my feelings are dead and sometimes ill-advised.
And it doesn’t matter how I tread, I can’t disguise the chill in my eyes.
And the anger I kept has evaporated nearly now that you’re gone.
Permanence is never permanent, and somehow I found a way to live on.
Your body in the coffin was as real as when I imagined it at twelve.
That was the last time I cried and put my feelings on the bookshelf.
The numbness I contained up until that day released at your wake.
I didn’t understand with every preparation came a new defense,
It’s almost as if everything in life made sense, and yet not at all.

-Pennington

Happy 56th Birthday.  You’re infinite now.

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Fitness Wasn’t Everything


I had someone tell me once, “Fitness isn’t all there is to the world.” And, although, I knew that, I didn’t comprehend what that looked like or how does one practice that kind of lifestyle, until life told me to take a seat with a cast on.  It was during this time I learned fitness wasn’t everything in life.  Fitness no longer always became the focus for which I identified with.  That changed my perspective on everything else, and it also made room for everything else I had to deal with.

I believe fitness has helped me to manage my bipolar for over a decade.  The first time I was diagnosed I didn’t want to believe it.  I think it’s not uncommon to say that before I was diagnosed, life was better.  But, that isn’t necessarily true.  I want it to be.  However, I understand that the notion of my life being better in the past is most likely stemming from not having the diagnosis in the first place since I can’t unknow what I know.  Nevertheless, the moment when fitness became unavailable for me, it was easier to see how difficult it became to stabilize my mood swings and irritability in general.

I used fitness as a crutch for many things like anger, depression and the void.  There were times I genuinely enjoyed gym-hopping because I naturally thought it was healthier than barhopping.  But, those hourly long sessions five or six times a week at the gym were where I chose to avoid certain life reflections.  So, rather than cut myself with a blade or fracture my hand on a solid wall, I would train to injury repeatedly.  I was using a different method to continue to hurt myself.

When I couldn’t train for a period, I had to learn to sit with my passions.  I had to observe my pain and find times for when I could adjust in healthier ways.  I had to find new ways to regulate my recurring moods, triggers and symptoms.  This was one of the most difficult things I had to do, despite allowing myself to feel what I feel when they arise.  It took a long time for me to realize that not every feeling will remain and not every thought was something I had to believe in.  I also didn’t realize in the way I trained my mind and body reflected my pain, avoidance, passion, anger, sadness and loneliness.

I’ve been a queen of silent pain, abuse and trauma.  I’ve been cold and brutal many times, not only to myself, but to others as well.  Once I started to transition from a masculine approach to more of a feminine one, I learned how to become softer and not have a meltdown.  With changing my mindset, from being open to change and flow while being less critical, clarity came along with ease and it reflected in my training styles as a form of better awareness, in and out my fitness, and life itself.

-Pennington

Tonight: A Side Effect of Greatness


meI have undying passion.
I have creativity and flow working together.
I’m a vessel of many lives.
I receive openly – more so than ever before.
I give when it behooves me.

And through these strong hands I channel my own life’s energy.  I can see that look of determined intent written across my eyebrows, pupils dilated with an immense shade of brown fire (if there were such a thing).  I love pleasant reminders of being a weightlifter like my silver barbell faded into a zealous rust color where the hands are strategically placed from robust usage.  Or the old-school globe dumbbell on the belly of my forearm in its own imperfect symmetry yet ideal shading.  I love reminders that feel like slices of heaven.  Or when heaven in my world resembles delayed onset muscle soreness.

I rewind to the time when my boyfriend performed the Razor’s Edge from the top of the couch when I was twelve years old – my entire back slammed onto the concrete of the floor in rapid fashion.  Without a flinch, without a facial expression, my skin sizzles like the morning sun, and my muscles quickly take on a singe.  But that’s just me rowing and pulling back with my elbows directing the strength show.

It’s just me and the bar – alone with my thoughts, alone with my focus, alone with my concentrated desire.  I can feel the flames fan and spread like a forest wildfire through my traps, teres minor/major, rhomboids and lats.  I row bent-over and row until my muscles become like deep hooks fasten to my bones.  I row until these muscles remain unquestionably contracted and freeze.  I row until my muscles yell, spit and claw at me with spasms.  Until I have to beg them for mercy and limber them again.

Disregarding the tight knot that formed in my back and in my forearms it is time to pick up the dumbbells for a bicep curl marathon.  I ride the mind-muscle connection.  I stand with soldier posture.  Shoulders are down and back and my abdominals are fully engaged.  I curl and curl; my skin tightens like a face peel – twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four and twenty-five reps.  I keep the world of burn centered in the bicep peak.  I’m in pain.  I can’t tell which it is:  Does my mind or body want to give up?

I grind my teeth.  I get angry.  I’m extremely ugly when I lift.  I’m never to sure what come(s) over me.  I now proceed to hurt myself further by grinding my teeth into my mouth and grimace like I’m dropping sewage in the public restroom.  I can feel my body wanting to break down since the fourth set at the beginning of the training session roughly 40 minutes ago.  I’m now over the hump.  I do my best to maintain good breathing technique during the seconds of concentric, isometric and eccentric.

Keep the body tight.
Keep the body tight.
Can you feel it baby?
I dirty-talk myself.

I’m far out.  I’m probably having an out of body experience.  I’m a watcher sitting on an engine fueling my iron addiction observing myself.  I’m exhausted like a motherfucker, but I’m chasing the burn, the pump and the grind.  I’m chasing the fat I’ve gain last year.  I’m chasing my fickle motivation.  I’m making my own inspiration once again.

And…

Tonight I felt like myself.
Tonight I felt like a weightlifter.
Tonight I’m heavy in love with myself.
Tonight the pumps in my deltoids were fearsome.
Tonight my triceps bled over (still are),
And I didn’t even train them.
That, my friends, is a side effect of greatness.

P.S.

Does my training inspire my writing or does my writing inspire my training?

-Pennington

Unnecessary Selfishness


abstract-woman-femile-girl-art--fall-amy-giacomelli I speak the only way I know how – from the heart.

I’ll never forget how you left me solid cold at one of the hardest times of my life.  I’ll never forget how you made everything about you when I was the one suffering from a broken ankle with no income and wondering where I was going to live.  I’ll never forget how all those rare moments you sat by my side like when my mother died and you were just a body, never really there – on your phone all day disrespecting us at her wake.  You were just a body, and so was I.  I was your masturbation device for years, but we did start with love once upon a time – and this is still up for debate.

I’ll never forget the time when life brought to my attention how heartless you were – waiting at the clinic with me to have an abortion.  And all you complained about was lack of sleep, yet I was faced with the decision of having a gargantuan life force taken out of me.  And when we went back to my house, there was no mention of how I felt from what I had to do for the second time in my life.  The truth is:  You went right to sleep as if nothing happened because it didn’t happen to you.  I’ll never forget about the first abortion either because you weren’t there when you could have taken the day off work to be with me.  The truth again:  You didn’t want to be there, and this was evident by the second experience.  I’ll never forget how you made all my problems into something that was never yours to support or deal with.

Thank you for showing me how love was never meant to feel.  Thank you for never being my rock and for never taking on anything you didn’t want to handle – at least this last part you were honest about.  Thank you for letting me know that sex was the thing that kept you going and that you didn’t mind taking over and over again.  Thank you for never protecting me in the ways I should have been.  Thank you for never treating me like royalty.  Thank you for your unnecessary amounts of selfishness.  Thank you for showing me when it was time to walk out.  Without this – I would’ve kept thinking this kind of love was normal, but it wasn’t love, and this behavior wasn’t normal in itself.  Thank you.  I’m at a better place now and in the care of a profound love.

-Pennington

Sadomasochist PT!


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The owner of the Physical Therapy place has an over-the-top Phillipine accent, a fabricated smile, along with the body of Dr. Robotnik. She oversees everything, including my chart. And although she’s the boss of everyone and everything in the place — I fucking dislike her with a fucking passion! My day is much better when I don’t see her at all when I’m at PT (and I go 3 times a week). I mean, when she doesn’t breathe next to me, when she doesn’t say hi to me or stand 10 feet away from me — my day is simply better.

My first (and current) impression of this PT woman is she’s truly cruel. I could tell by the first evaluation; how she grabbed my lifeless foot of two months and twisted it in ways where my natural instinct was to contort my face with emotions and invisible curse words. What upset me the most about her giving me pain like this was not once did she think to mention sorry or even warn me beforehand of her vicious nature.

Let me say for the record, I’m not a stranger to PT. I’m a weightlifter for Christ sake with a fairly decent ego that makes it easy for me to acquire injury as if it’s a mark of a champion. And what I’m about to explain is all a true story. None of this is made up for amusement, but for me to remember the chapters of my life.

Side note: I have this theory, where, sometimes I believe that if a person has been in their occupation for far too long that their behavior and actions and such start to become the occupation as oppose to them being the occupation — whether good or bad. Like for instance,  stockbrokers are evil. Do you think it’s really a coincidence? Mmkay.

So anyway, for the most part I tend to work with the male PT who I love, but his boss is the fat cruel bitch and owner of the place. Cruel fat lady has a tendency to come by — I presume — when she has no other paperwork to do and when she wants to critique and hear her own voice to get off — while other times she observes my PT session (with my male PT) I believe, just to taunt me by saying, “Do the exercise without holding onto the bars. Or can you do like this (gets on an easy wobble board with straight posture while dancing on it).”

Times like this, I want nothing more but to poke her eyes out with my hands as I think to myself: I can certainly get on the easier wobble board and pretend to dance on it and laugh like you do if only I could put 100% bodyweight on my right ankle that was broken a mere weeks before while not having my other muscles compensate by trying to stand with a marine perfect posture if I wasn’t in so much fucking pain already. But, let’s face it, only one of us is in pain and lives a pretty more normal life with two feet healthy and walking on the ground.

So, is there a wonder why I think she’s such a HUGE cuntbag? She enjoys taking jabs at people when they’re in pain and one lady who also gets PT and was on the bike when she overheard the fat lady owner say, “Can you do this and dance?” to me, she took it upon herself to say to fat lady: “It’s easy to say those things when you’re not the one in pain.” Then a moment of awkward silence fell on all of us and everyone else in the PT office.

I want to stab this fat lady in her glittery hazel eyes, not only because she reminds me of one of my cruel unforgiving married-in aunts, but because nothing I ever do is enough for her (not that she matters) and because my pain is never painful enough for her (although often enough, the pain is unbearable and I make it look easy). She never has anything positive to say and maybe this is another part of her monstrous personality?

Here’s what I gathered so far from this vicious bitch. When she sees me down in the dumps with pain and I’m taking a time out slouched on the chair resting for a moment she comes on over and asks me, “How are you? Are you in a lot of pain?” I say yes sometimes and crack a sneer. And when I say yes, she laughs like a wicked witch and walks off stage like a director just screamed cut!

Another time: I had to work with her one day when she massaged and jerked my foot off in a very hard and fast fashion, she managed like usual to hurt me during the process. After that abuse, she had me do lots of new exercises for my foot/ankle and she made me perform them up until I let out a large breath that sounded like I sucked heavily through a straw of pain because my calve was about to give me a fat cuntbag Charlie horse. She did this 3 different times and each time I could tell she enjoyed looking into my face to see what reaction I was willing to give.

Another time: She came by to check my progress and I did my ankle exercises while she placed manual resistance (her hand on me and placing resistance down so I can fight/flex against it for those who aren’t aware of what MR means), then decides to flex my foot upwards to the ceiling past the 90 degree mark (which now I can do), but went past the muscle and stiffness resistance until 2 cracks let loose from somewhere in the middle and back of my foot. Thank god it didn’t hurt, but I don’t understand why she would do this? Or why didn’t she apologize for cracking my foot? Or warn me that a crack could happen?

There’s also another young PT woman who aids me at times when my Male PT is helping others in need of something, and I call her Numbnut because she’s very gullible. When she comes to assist me she thinks it’s girl chatty time and never counts my reps while she speaks up a storm. She asks me so many questions that I start to make up stories for my amusement and to get through the pain.

Because she’s learn from the fat lady cunt which is to be aggressive to the point where my body goes to panic mode, where it wants to flee and it goes to fight mode and I get the hulk urge triggered beyond a pain threshold I can’t handle (but must!), where I want to beat Numbnut onto the parallel bars til she feels what I feel and more. Just like fat lady, Numbnut has no remorse and shares no empathy for other people’s pain, even though she’s clearly the one giving it and could choose to give less says the flood in my eyes to which I hold back.

Aside from these two psychotic bitches, the male PT I work with has been very good to me. Since day one he has been very nice to me. Lately, he’s been very happy with my progress. Probably because he’s aware of how much I work on my own at home and because I progress quickly. During each session, he says, “Sorry” numerous times and says, “I’m sorry I have to put you in pain, I hope you understand.” And not once has he taunt me in any way or has given me extra exercise work to do or has ever said, “Do anke pumps all day in your house.” Because I’m always in pain, so how far will I get with pumping my ankle all fucking day?

To end this, I know some of you may think I sound crazy. But I can assure you I’m very good at reading people and even better with reading human behavior. I’m pretty sure you’re asking: What do you mean the owner of the PT place would want to hurt you? What would they gain out of it? Well, sit down and read this post again. Two out of three people I work with are aggressive and sadistic. They push me over the pain limit. How come one doesn’t? Numbnut doesn’t come off as if she does it because she gets off on it, but fat lady DOES get off on it. My gut tells me Numbnut gives so much pain because she wants the patient to get back to normal as soon as possible.

Still, I know what my intuition tells me and I know it never fails me. I know how sick this world is and how much sicker the people who live in this world are. Fat cunt lady has become her occupation, someone who gives pain and willingly gives pain with a willingness like no other while the patient has to deal with it in order to recover. It’s not a wonder why fat lady says, “You’re so nice.” It’s because she’s had numerous people curse her out already. I’m just trying to take the high road. But for how long?

Listen, this is fat lady’s sick fantasy, where one can view it as a sick love fetish story.

-Pennington

An Open Letter to Indifference


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It took me a good length of time to warm up to your hands and be open to your kiss. I never imagined the day. That one time when we took time off from seeing one another – a month and a half – I had far-reaching sentiments wrapped in a box with ribbons that glowed of reasonable expectations and hopes. I loved you.

And on that altered afternoon when I came to visit, I went with every intention to slowly pull away the gift wrap that was you – emotionally speaking. I fancied to display how much I missed you and your darling face and your scent I consider home. I looked forward to quality time and a world of welcoming love same as usual. And perhaps it was my mistake – expecting you to always be on the identical page as mine? We were disconnected.

And my eyes were wide open to your loud actions and your words failed me because they were of a sexual nature and your hands no longer defaulted to being warm. They were indifferent now. And with an energy of a wolf, you came onto me and unwrapped my clothes with hungry claws leaving me bared for a moment just enough to capture the view of the voluptuous latina you glared as feast.

You walked me to your white door and pinned me against it with heavy aggression and kissed me with the same force with a tiny dollop of love inside your breath. And you groped every part of my meat and ate from it as if you were in a state of panic, of pure desperation, of a teenaged boy whose hormones got the best of him – just like a wolf taking over its prey.

And boy, I wish I left. I wish I could take my heart out my chest and stomp it onto the ground until there wasn’t a beat left – how it hurt like the day I was five years old and my mother first broke my heart with parental neglect. Because between loving you and the three hour trip it took to travel made even my thoughts feel small until they disappeared like smoke, like white lies, like happily ever afters.

And in this instance, you didn’t understand – how my sensible feelings have changed and how they buried themselves in deep despair and how anger created a shift in perspective; how these sentiments were relentless and at the same token – unforgiving. You didn’t realize the crime being committed; the way I was dramatically falling out of love with you; how this time when you cupped my face, kissed me deep and served me pleasure in the bedroom I was gone. I checked out emotionally and felt like freedom contained in the wind.

It was easy to become the watcher and observe from the outside in how you made me feel – like a woman selling herself off Hunts Point Avenue, like friends with lewd benefits. There was a dangerous courage in your behavior because of all the history that came before and will continue after us. I’m in disbelief and I can never feel the same way about us again. However, this has been a long winded way of saying: I’m not a maximus call.

-Pennington

Workout Reflection


She-Ra0                                                               Use the force!

Before I get into this post I want to say that ever since Xanga decided to fuck me by taking away my other Pennington_Hall blog I’ve stopped making my workout log entries.  I never intended to log into WordPress the way I’ve done on Xanga.  For the current moment and until I make a choice on whether or not I want to create a new WordPress for the sole purpose of comfort for now I’ll attempt to find my logging groove back and try it on here tonight.  Hope you enjoy.

Tonight I was very angry.  My trainer Dark Knight stood me up without even notifying me.  Sometimes when you get into tiny dilemmas with the person who’s also your lover, well, things happen.  I’ll work the kinks out within the next few days and I’ll make sure to be a bitch about it to him then.  Still the positive to this downside is it gave me extra fuel to write up my own workout of the night as I kicked each gym member out to close down the gym.

Once the gym lights automatically go out I make sure to get my light-bulb extension and hang it up where I’m going to be stationed and rock this body of mine.

Workout

(In order.  All Supersets between Upper/Lower 4 sets a piece.)

Standing Shoulder Dumbbell Press (Engaging Core/Glutes)
Walking Lunges with Dumbbells
Wide Bicep Curls (E-Z Bar)
Dumbbell Bench Squats (Top of ass grazing the bench)
Push ups (Hand placement wide)
Good Mornings (Medium and narrow stance)
Seated Rows (2 different grips/attachments)
Hip Thrusts (45lb plate)
*Sissy Squats (Bodyweight. 20 reps per set)

Reflection –

I felt good the first few rounds back and forth with Pressing and Walking Lunges.  Of course I pyramid the weight because that’s how I’ve always trained.  By the time I got to the next 2 exercises for Biceps and Bench Squats I was literally dying.   My face was flushed, my head felt like it grew a few inches and was about to explode to the point where I had to take off my headphones to really zero in on each exercise, feel the reps, contraction, movement, along with every sensation my body was letting me in on.  I had to make sure everything was full quality.

Halfway in the workout right after the first 4 exercises I texted my Partner In Crime with, “I don’t know if I can make it to the next 4 exercises and superset them the way I’ve been.  I’m hot and I’m dying.”  And he boosted me with, “I know how you are and that’s not going to stop you from trying.  That’s why you’re the best.”  Never mind the “Keep up the good work,” “You’re hot.  You’re the sexiest bitch around” and “I like when you sweat” and “You’re a turn on baby.  I like the way you make your workouts sound!”  SIMPLY PUT this was all the motivation I needed to keep my fire going.

Despite the fact I was fighting the ill feelings of vomiting throughout, fighting against the A/C not being on once the automatic lights shuts off in the gym, anger from one lover while the other lover quickly boosted my morale, well, things seemed to work out for my training session this evening and I couldn’t ask for more.  I felt peaceful and all my life tensions were going away with each rep.

After I finished up the next 4 and final exercises with the supersets I felt froggy and although I didn’t add any more exercises to my paper besides the 8 I decided to add 80 Sissy Machine Squats.  My body was shaking.  I was thriving.  I was still using anger as fuel and even though I felt dizzier and dizzier during the whole ordeal I just had to give it a bit more.

Plus I’ve been looking for that Sissy Squat machine for over a month and NOW it finally decides to show up.  This was the first time I used it and made sure to work the fuck out of it before even thinking about exiting the gym.  Tonight I’ll YouTube to see the various ways I can use this Sissy Squat Machine.

Happy Training!

-Pennington

Question: Where Did You Get Your Strength From?



Quite a few things. Anger being the main ingredient. 

Anger is where my strength originates from.  I take pride in anger since this emotion has always given me purpose, creativity, courage, the need to destroy, yet rebuild more than any other emotion I’ve ever come across.  Other things I draw strength from are:  Guts, Determination, Being an Individual, Having Cojones, Having a slight Inferior Complex (probably a Napoleon Complex?), setting a different standard for myself.. not allowing myself to be like the average female stuck within society’s place, being better/smarter/stronger than (some) men, among other things.

From young I always felt like a strong gal. 

I think deep within I always had a fighting warrior spirit.  Where it came from?  I do not know.  But I believe it came from the wonders of my intelligence and supernatural confidence.  I remember during elementary school I would stick up for others when people would pick on the weaker kids.  I guess because I knew I was strong and morally bullying kids for no good reason IS fucking wrong!  Plus I knew what it felt like when I got picked on when I was in kindergarten all the way to third grade.  I’ll never forget in first grade how it happened and at the same time what I witness.  I went to the restroom with two of my stringy first grade friends.  We were about to go into the stall.  When an eerie aura thick as stress tension appeared instantly.  My ears perked up as if my Spidey senses went off and I knew something was about to go down.

Then in all their mightiness these two tall and stocky fifth graders were eying all three of us with a sinister hunger in their face.  And out they called to my two stringy friends first and placed them up against the wall nose touching, “Pull down your pants!”  I was in back of all of them and in watching.. in fear I froze.  I didn’t want anything to happen to my friends.  But I couldn’t bring myself to walk.  Running out the bathroom felt like a tremendous amount of courage I swore I didn’t have at the age of 6.  When they refused to pull their pants down.  These fifth graders took it upon themselves and down their pants went, including underwear and exposing my friends rears.  I was cringing at this point.  I felt powerless.  I was just hoping one of the teachers would pick up on the fact that we were taking long.  Then these fifth graders started spanking them hard.  And the yelps and screams filled the air.  And I can’t remember anything else.

I never wanted to feel that way again. 

It took some time for me to build up more guts and courage to fight strangers.  But once I became acquainted with a third-grader who paid it forward by fighting most of my battles I knew I had to make a decision as soon as she told me she wouldn’t always be around to fight ALL my struggles.  Well, I made a name for myself by beating up a boy in fourth-grade in the cafeteria.  Then by the time I got into junior high the rest was history.  Let’s just say the Dean knew me by first name basis.  And none of my teachers bothered me because I’d send a book flying in their direction.  Anger issues much?  Certainly! 😉

Anger was and still is the only thing that has never let me down. 

And with this, I channeled most of my energy through building up more physical and mental strength.  The more strength I received and felt comfortable with the more courage I had when it came to everything, especially sticking up to one of my child molesters.  He stopped fucking with me after I threw a VHS tape at his face and threatened him with a screwdriver I was holding in hand when I was 12.  Then I had to ward off grown cousins who liked to pick on my weak chubby brother.  It was worth getting black eyes to defend what was/is right for what I believed in.   My physical strength came in pure enjoyment when I was heavily into wrestling around the age of 14-16.  I played wrestling with the neighborhood guys and my bro.  I would go on to body-slamming these guys who were 2-3 times my size.  All this seem to pay off as I get off nowadays on Lifting.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And all this from a whole world of circumstance and anger.

Pennington