The blood stops short trapped before a hair tie, until I release the bun of tension: post exercise of body-induced drama. This is the captivating magic of night.
The mind works itself into heavy persuasion. The body labors with intense urging. The heart never questions what the goals are or what state of peak condition or overwhelmed fatness I stand in. A sober thought I do entertain is how someone can not understand the significance of body awareness and its dynamism.
I have a passionate addiction to adrenaline and to the exclusive kick of the way my muscles drum within its act of compulsion. The heart skips, skips and skips uninhibited. It beats obsessively and storms out my mouth like an aggressive bird. It ignites the fight and frenzy over the psyche and tissue land of freedom.
I’ve failed many times and am more successful because of every stoppage. And now every weakness is formed into substantial strength and what strength has already been established has now constructed itself into marble and stone.
The focus is better determined than years previous. The focus is better established than the last set and the mind-muscle connection tastes stronger than the last seething rep. I’ve been sucked into a craving that’s unaware of its bounds. I throw my fists into the air to battle and enter new coordination and balance ground.
My chest hovers over the floor, shoulders and triceps contract, hum and weep pushing up 200lbs plus over and over again. The brace of my abdominals is my body’s endless support and savior. Now there’s a surge spreading like a wild forest fire burning each of my hamstring fibers and into every angle and groove of my glutes with a various amount of hip thrust and single-leg pelvic bridges I can muster under time and tension. The inner thigh screams by its own distress signals and fleshly vulnerability. The burn degrees increase and I pull my center deeply to the spine to further the accuracy of the focal point along with the present.
I grimace in pain and drill my teeth into my own mouth. I start to elevate and disappear like smoke. I’m high now and there’s an exit. I’m high and there are no thoughts struggling its way to birth other thoughts. I’m high and suddenly there are no problems in the world. There is no suffering. There is only bliss and light. There is only presence and heaven. There is only the state of pure being.
My new therapist wants me to open the mystery door about my mother’s death because apparently I’m not depressed enough for her. Ha! It’s been a little over a year and a half and I still haven’t come to terms with how I feel about my mother’s death except I’m happy she’s no longer suffering in this cruel world.
Sometimes I go to the river by the busy highway and speak to her directly or through the universe. I light candles for her in her honor every few months. My partner and I get her blue flowers also as tribute. At times, I believe, one reason why I cemented my journey and involvement with ballet-inspired workouts is because I remembered in her childhood she wanted to be a Ballerina, so I honor her by learning and performing ballet. Last, but not least, I hung her last painting high up on the wall of a bridge over water over a plush purple night that looks a lot like the bridge I eerily live close to nowadays.
And I’m not sure if because death came and went, or because of my denial, but it’s pretty weird how the older I get and the more I stare in the mirror, the more I realize how much I look like my mother’s daughter. I guess everyone saw it before me. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough before. Who knows?
The truth is I haven’t been able to sit down and stare longer than five seconds on any of my mother’s photos. I’ve seen a lot of her different dimensions at different times and the longer I stare at a photo, the more all those dimensions pop out and the more I may have to relive memories that leave me open and scarred.
The longer I stare, the quicker my eyes start to flood and the quicker I start to counter and strain to contain the waterworks. I’m not a sappy person. I don’t forget my cruel childhood, but death has a weird way of sitting you down and making you think about your mortality and everybody else’s even if you don’t want to sit down and think about it. And even though I can be heavily into death itself and metaphysics and pits of darkness, it seems at the age of thirty-four death seems realer than ever.
Death has also made me think more about how ending memories are probably the most important ones. This intrigued me because I’m all about beginnings, so for closing memories to leave a devastating mark haunts me. What’s worse is I didn’t even get to say goodbye while she was conscious. By the time I went to travel to the hospital to see her I was in a wheelchair with a very painful throbbing ankle in a heavy cast. It was hell for my foot to not be elevated, but I believe I was numb inside from my mother’s death. So much was taken from me in a matter of weeks from mobility and now her.
It was awful having the knowledge of how the doctors had to sedate her until she was finally gone because the pain in her intestines would be too much for her to handle. And that’s what hurts the most. I think about how hard her life has always been. I think about all the times I didn’t want to be happy in my own life because I felt guilty because she was always out there suffering with an incurable disease. My last memory of her alive was observing her writhing in massive pain. I knew in the way she talked, it was psychologically different from anything I’ve ever heard her say. In her words, in the way she spoke she was already gone.
It was hard to stomach mentally and it was harder to stomach visually how she could no longer go to the bathroom on her own and how the nurses were the ones bathing her in the room on her bed. But on the last day I saw her I caressed her hair. I remembered kissing her on her warm forehead telling her I’ll visit again very soon, but soon after I broke my ankle and I was already far far away from reaching her.
My mother was dying since I was nine years old. I became desensitized to every near death and actual near death experience she’s ever has, so when this became the day, it was as if life played a hardcore prank on me. It just seemed like every time she survived another one and another one and another one, but not this time.
Who knew that was going to be the last time I saw her talking or breathing? Who knew that would’ve been the last kiss I gave her on her warm forehead? I think some people have fantasies about how they want people to go before they die. I always thought I’d see her one last time with my brother in the hospital room and we would both take turns saying, “We forgive you for everything. We know you did the best you could. We’ll always love you.”
But nothing ever turns out the way you expect in life and that’s just how it is. So now I think about the other ending memories, the ones way before she went back into the hospital for a gazillion time. I think about how even though I didn’t have the best relationship with her throughout my life, she did branch into a second mother towards the ending of her life. She was a newer mother, better mature. During that process, I believe a big part of her learned to really appreciate me because I was there to the end unlike my brother who stopped showing up to the hospital and didn’t even come to see her at her own funeral.
I’m left with the ending memories like how I did visit her more often in the hospice. How I left the house with $50 bucks one day and took her to a street fair where I bought her food, had her play games until she won a stuffed animal and I went back home with a $1 in my pocket. At the time, for a moment I was upset, but I quickly thought about how she wasn’t going to be around forever – so this is something I’m supposed to do and it was something that came out of my heart anyway. Plus I wanted her to have a good time and not worry about death coming closer and closer.
I think about the ending memories and how I would take her out on pass for a few hours to enjoy new foods, to get her soda and cigarettes, to enjoy the sun and we would sit in the park and watch the hot guys play soccer. I think about how for a very long time before I even thought about taking her out and seeing her often, for a time I stopped seeing her altogether. I stopped seeing her for so long with the intention to make her suffer like she did me and when I came in the hospice room she hugged me tightly and cried so much. I was still pretty numb at the time. I’ve always been.
I never thought she felt like that about me – love. Or how my friend (who now is my current partner) passed me a cigarette behind her back while we walked to the pizza shop out on pass and she scolded him lovingly, “Are you getting my daughter into smoking now?” And that was the first time in a long time where I thought, “Hey, she must care about me.”
You know what’s to come.
You hear war drums.
You heard about the hunter in me.
You know I’m butter toffee.
You heard I bruise egos.
You know I’m blacker than Negroes.
You heard I have a million sins.
You know I don’t fix things.
You can’t stop yourself.
You like the pains and welts.
You know the sum of what’s to come.
You love my Puerto Rican in your rum.
You like the ecstasy and high I bring.
You enjoy how I leave you on brink.
You like the bountiful sex I give.
You love me so much to forgive.
You know exactly what’s to come.
You can hear the bass and thrums.
I can’t bring you safety baby.
I’m high, low, manic, crazy.
I’m not stupid to guard your heart.
I can’t even blueprint my art.
I can’t be like you: Lost in love.
I’m dead inside – a little too tough.
You know shamelessly what’s to come.
Interestingly enough you’re off the cuff.
I’m going to hurt you like the others.
I’ll haunt like the suffering of mothers.
I’m going to give you a world of hurt.
I wouldn’t be able to without teamwork.
You heard of ruin and what’s to come.
Now you’re my next chewing gum.
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.
“I was going to die, sooner or later, whether or not I had even spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silences will not protect you…. What are the words you do not yet have? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language. Next time, ask: What’s the worst that will happen? Then push yourself a little further than you dare. Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it’s personal. And the world won’t end. And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”
– Audre Lorde
During my periodic monthly episodes of blood, increased hormones, life force and such taking over, I tend to get a bit gloomy, while becoming overrun by immaturity, not to mention, I write more carelessly than I like to admit throughout this instance. So, if you’re looking for something thrilling, inspiring, and poetic or whatnot, you’ve come at the wrong time. There’s no true significance in this entry, except that I’m venting.
Throughout the course of my life, I never thought I belonged anywhere. There were things I’ve always enjoyed like reading, writing, receiving education, sex and being physically active. And although I’m aware that one can be content and isolated away from the conventional world, sometimes I can’t help but wonder how would my mind and heart have been shaped like if I did feel I belonged to something? Would I have felt less alone or more engaged to the world like how dreamers dream profusely of that lotto ticket?
I don’t belong to friends. I have zero (doesn’t include the fabulous ones I have made online or the two ex-boyfriends in my real life that I consider to be like family). Growing up, it was hard to blend in and follow the disgusting girls into their femininity and twin-like mirroring behavior. I took pride in being a tomboy and in being an individual, whereas most appeared to benefit from being a replica of another, so it wasn’t a question why I was constantly the first to be flat-left in the blink of an eye.
I thought things would naturally get better once I got older because of better judgment. Apparently not! From the twenties, and into the early thirties (of where I am now), it seems I meet the wrong types of people. Some of them believe friendship is about sugarcoating, living with illusions, and never involves the truth for personal enlightenment and growth. So, I don’t belong to friends.
I don’t belong to family. I only have one favorite aunt, whom I took after, to a small degree. I’ve been working on my rapport with her for the past year because part of the new me is to be better acquainted with family, although I dislike nearly everyone in it. It’s ironic; I believe the injustice of life has been slowly taking her away from me.
I digress, however. Friends are a lot like family. It involves fitting into a certain mold. And it’s hard for me to be the type of person who can easily overlook their principles, values, beliefs in such a way where I can willingly blend in with the rest of my hypocritical family. I haven’t been blessed with any true friend or relative. I just keep bumping into the wrong people. And why have the wrong people in my life, when it’s better to be true to myself and live within truth instead of a lie?
I don’t belong to fitness. I work out faithfully. I don’t eat clean majority of the time. I don’t take numerous selfies. I don’t buy expensive supplements. I don’t feel the need to show off my body. I don’t have the desire to inspire or motivate others because they usually fall short of my standards. I no longer truly look up to the fitness professionals of the sport as role-models. I don’t even have people in my circle who are diehard fans of training or weightlifting.
In a place of fitness and the gym, it’s my happy place and true religion. But with the masses making a mockery out of fitness (mostly on the internet), where egos turn fit people into assholes and where asking for well-being guidance is replaced by a hand asking for money; I feel as if I’m further away from this sort of crowd and in my own ways, I feel more alone than ever.
I’m sure it’s all about the attitude and perception of mine and how I live in a matter-of-fact system. Nevertheless, it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t feel like I belong anywhere. But please, don’t get me wrong, I love myself and I am who I am today because I never thought the grass was greener on the copycat’s side. I never thought to fit readily into the methods of the conformist world which occupied family, friends or gyms I belonged to.
I just wonder..
Here’s the truth: Over the course of 2 months I’ve lost interest in everything. A big part of this happened due to the unexpectedness of life and mostly because I was losing what I consider to be my identity at the core to strange and newer thoughts and to feelings I would never even give a seed to sprout from.
I went from power poses to vulnerable ones. I went from an assertive voice to a squeak of a mouse. I went from eating like a beast to eating like a tiny bird. I went from being sure and proud of every decision I come to make up to now to drowning in what others wanted for me over night. And how was I not myself?
It wasn’t until this week where I started to listen to music again. It wasn’t until this week where I let nature come into my heart once more and touch my face and allowed it to perk up every one of my senses again while I paced myself from short travels or long city walks.
The only thing that has gotten me out of bed has been the productivity, the goal of going to school to get one degree so I can get another. And it’s whatever works, whatever gets you through to the next day so one doesn’t feel reckless. But I’m still out of control, I’m still holding onto negative views and I’m out of order when it comes to concentration. It’s completely unlike me and if it wasn’t for my inner strength I would imagine I’d let go because all I feel is alone.
The last few nights I’ve taken mere opportunities to perform some bodyweight squats because in the back of my head I’ve brainwashed myself to move it or lose it. Not too long ago before I knew what I knew I had taken a week off from having a troubling head/chest cold and Dark Knight being the strict personal trainer he is at the time made sure to pat and grope my ass to say, “Just checking. It still feels firm.” And of course I could have cursed him out and brought up the double standard views of genders except I didn’t because I understand what it means to be this way. But the reality is there are countless factors that determine how quickly strength or physical looks are to diminish and I’m not within that realm of possibility.
Now I have to be smart and heal from the procedure I had on Monday. I’m looking at (hopefully) another 2 weeks and if lifting heavy steel wasn’t an issue enough, there’s the not having actual penetration part either. Oh goodie!
I could only remember the last few workouts I had in the beginning weeks of January. One was working out with an acquaintance of mine (I forced him) and we worked out upper body until I caught a dead arm and until he pretty much tapped out on going set after set. After we were done I had to pressure him to hydrate like a camel and eat something because he was coming down with chills as he did his best to try and keep up with me for every single static hold, rep, pyramid set and every other compound exercise while losing track of time. We never made it to the movies. But I was high and delighted as if I had an orgasm with merry smiles. Fuck me! I even caught people wishing they could be my training partner since the eyes never lie.
I remember the second workout was in my house where I supersetted (E-Z Curl) Small Barbell 40lbs (all I have at home) Squats with Push ups for as many sets as I could give as I was struggling to breathe still from a really bad hacking cough and lungs constricted where I needed my asthma pump from time to time. Then I threw in Pauline Nordin’s The Butt Bible right after that workout to make sure I felt as if I worked all angles on my legs and glutes. It did the trick because after all was done I felt orgasmic and wiped out once again.
I’m quick to believe for a moment (due to freaking out!) that once I reach a certain degree of shit that I can’t turn back and do what I used to do the way I’ve always done it (which is total bullshit by the way)! It makes me as happy as receiving oral sex to now eagerly daydream about going back to the gym. I feel I’m ready mentally, not yet physically. But I can’t wait to bring a new attitude and vigor to my sets with various movements. I can’t wait to steal the limelight from others who are working next to me. I can’t wait until I feel somewhat sexy again. I can’t wait to feel the blood pumping throughout my body making me feel beastly and edgy and powerful. I can’t wait!
It’s strange to feel like I’m sitting on the bench for something that was out of my control. I don’t ask life why anymore. I stopped that. One reason is because it sounds beyond melodramatic and I’m sure there are lessons in place for me as much as there are mistakes. But even though I told myself not to deny anything I feel during this delicate emotional and mental moment I have to move slow although I really just want to move on to a different chapter in my life.
Still I have a friendly jealousy towards all the amazing people who are working out currently and I get to watch their progress on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr and Instagram. No matter what social media I’m on there’s fitness at every turn. I’ve been enjoying some folks who have been taking the time out to send me their photo improvement as well. They don’t know that underneath it all they’re feeding me constant energy and therefore are inspiring me.
The other truth is: I’m determined, passionate, have good work ethics, have a thirst for more so I’ll never be able to truly let go. I’ve never been a weak person. I’ve always had and continue to have a fire in me that won’t quit. So in the end I’ll get through this as everything else I’ve gotten through in my life. However this time around and to take a quote from Country Strong I want to, “Fall in love with as many things as you can (or possible).” I want to give that a go too and maybe we all should?
And as far as tonight goes I’m flirting much with the idea of Yoga. How much strain could it possibly put my body through right? I will do something therapeutic this late evening like cook dinner and make tacos. 😉
If you manage to read this all on your first time: Thank you! And even if you didn’t, thank you anyway! And if you come here to check my page out regularly enough to read it thank you! And if this is your first time on my page: Thanks for coming aboard at this moment! 😀
I’ve built up everything in these feelings
The way they rushed over me
Like runaway daughters
I wish I could tell you
How much I miss you
Despite the million missiles
And I wish I could keep things
Simple like shades
And never know the difference
And of what fades.
And I wish I could say
Love is enough
To brighten the greys.
But I’m no fool because
The heart’s name is Jack
And with all the trades.
I held on for so long
To every obese memory
Overstayed my welcome
Listening to old songs.
We were trying to
Strengthen our wrongs
But what came about
Of unsung tongues.
I wish I could help you
Coming out of oneself
Locating that inner calm.
For when blame
Is passed like a baton
Everyone cries like Miss Saigon.
And oh how the moments were blonde!
Every Don Juan I kissed
Never brought you back
My black swan.
And I was on repeat
Of a fantasy of us laughing.
Then every chuckle was on delete
Because It worked better in my head
Daring and smashing!
Even the rough drafts
And imaginary monologues
I wrote on sticky pads.
Those fucking arguments
And the realization of the end
From the middle of which we stood
By the marvellousness of our youth.
Was I not your muse?
Or you mine?
And in those mistakes
Of devotion and abuse
Did we seldom refuse
To pay our dues
When they embarked within truth?
I loved you.
Don’t you just LOVE this word? Doesn’t this word conjure feelings of anger? How about happiness? Or maybe a feeling like building, manipulating or fumbling a case? Or what about tucking our tails between our chronic trembling legs running down a manhole hiding everything in range of vision while clutching onto our rosary of justification? I don’t know about you, but when I take off the “m,e, n, t,” I find the word “Judge” to be painfully ugly.
Still, does it stop me from judging? Or what I call prescreening or filling in what I believe is a profile based on age, skin color, style, gender or education? Does judging a person make one smarter or stupider? Does it keep us safe? Or immobile with our guard? Or do we find wisdom in it? Are judgements the same as opinions? Could the case of the person being judge be faulted by facts? How much are we allowed to pin on a person when in the end it can all be a matter of perspective?
I’ve been burned once.
And I don’t mean like the one time at band camp during the age of 15 where I came silently into contact with gonorrhea. I mean, burned as in Cast Away from friends, groups, associates and even work because I believe in stating however careful or blatant the policy I live by: Honesty. (For a story greater in detail which is along the topic of this one. Read here.) Now for the life of me (and I hate when I say this ->), but I understand and I don’t understand why the next person can’t accept my principles since I enjoy maintaining my codes: Morals, Loyalty, Friendship and Respect to name a few?
Honesty has allowed me to be confident and clear with who I am in my skin and within my conscious. Not to be mistaken with who I want or wish to be, presently or approaching. Cheerlessly, my reliance level isn’t well received by others as they grow hate for my unintentional means of arriving which makes them feel uncomfortable or threaten with their already firing insecurities. What do you know? One of the infamous questions I get is: “How do you do it?” And it’s simple really. If you’re honest with yourself and others, your integrity becomes invincible. All doubts diminish as they’ll light richly with truth because your words and actions are aligned within the universe frequency.
Anything outside of honesty, living by a set of morals and practicing everyday challenges of being self-aware I want nothing to do with. I have a friend who says, “Penn you have to learn how to accept people.” But how can I learn to accept people when they don’t agree and welcome themselves first? So, how will they in turn welcome me? If the person lies to themselves than this will mean they’ll undoubtedly lie to me. And why would I want to be involved with such brainlessness?
I never found it scary, nor will I excuse myself from saying the truth. Promises are flimsy, waiting to be annihilated like the common people. But, my words alone are my bond. I want them crimeless, reeking of finesse and raging guts just how I treat my Training. Rather than being the Average Joe and feeling I’m better off speaking higher than what I can display my character. I wonder, if these people sincerely believe they can get away with this disgraceful behavior while keeping someone as special as me in their life at the same time?
When you value yourself, nothing else matters.