self talk

Frejah, Tina, And A Really Dumb Hobby ~ Or, That Time I Tried Boxing

On beating yourself up

Almost everyone does it. I’m not sure why.

After the fact (or even during it) all the blame, second-guessing and paralysis. We say things to ourselves that we’d never permit anyone else to say. Why?
1. It leaves us bruised and battered, unlikely to do our best work while you’re recovering.
2. It hurts our knuckles.
3. It distracts us from the work at hand.

Perhaps there’s a more humane and productive way to instill positive forward motion. I’m sure there is.
At the very least, this is a dumb hobby.
~ Seth Godin


Once, back in the nineties, I took a boxing class.
I figured that with the boss I had and all of the sex I wasn’t having—I must have a lot of hostility to work out. And besides, I had read in Vogue that you could burn 1200 calories an hour boxing!

Sign . Me. Up.

The instructor, a tall, Mandingo Warrior named Frejah (pronounced Free-Jay) who trained professional fighters at a famous gym in Venice, would have us carefully bind our fists with tape, lace up our gloves, and stand in front of a six-foot tall dark blue leather punching bag that was suspended by a heavy black chain from the ceiling. Every class he’d stand behind us, kicking our legs into a wider stance as he ghetto-yelled “encouragement” which could have easily been mistaken for harassment—all in the name of motivation.

“Come on you little pussy” He’d holler at Kenneth, a guy who came in wearing a white shirt with a pocket protector, “You couldn’t hurt your grandmother, who by-the-way, said to say hello to you this morning.”

Some of us may have giggled.

“Oh, you think that’s funny?!” he swooped in beside me and bellowed in my ear like a drill sergeant, “Do ya?!” I shook my head no emphatically as I pawed at the bag like a baby kitten. “Is that how you hit a fucking bag?!”

He went and stood in front of all of us as we tried in vain just to make the heavy bag swing on the chain.
We all sucked. And this was like week four.

“Hit the fucking bag!” he screamed, foam escaping the sides of his snarled lips. “Hit it like you mean it!”

There was a timid girl next to me, Tina, wearing glasses and a ponytail. Her face was filled with determination but every time she hit the bag her glove would just slide off and she’d almost do a face-plant on the behemoth. Frejah became silent as he watched her punch and lose her balance, punch and lose her balance.

His silence was not a good thing. It meant that the pressure was building—and he was about to blow!

I couldn’t watch.

As I sent a flurry of kitten punches into the body of my bag, Frejah got into Tina’s face. Inches away he started sneering insults. “What the hell do you think you’re doing you little mamby pamby?”

I had no idea what that meant, it just sounded bad. Weak and lame. Frejah was right. We were a bunch of mamby pambys.

He grabbed the glasses off her face and tossed them over to the side. Oh, fuck, I thought, How do I watch what’s about to happen and still look like I’m hitting the bag? My talented right eye traveled over somewhere around my ear to get a good view. (It never happened before—and it has never happened since.)

Frejah was yelling obscenities at Tina while pushing her in the chest with his glove.
Goading her to hit him.
“Your daddy an asshole?” he sneered, “I bet he’s a reeeeeal piece a work. You hate him dontcha?” He pushed Tina a little harder with just one gloved fist.

“Hit me. I’m your shitty daddy. Hit me! You know you want to!”

But that bitch stood her ground. She didn’t budge. Until she did.
Without so much as blinking Tina landed a solid left hook squarely on Frejah’s right jaw. Then she walked out. I found out later that she drove all the way home (without her glasses!) with her hands still bound in the bright red boxing gloves.

We all froze in place like life-size, mamby pamby ice sculptures. Frejah barely flinched. His glove went up to his face and he nodded. I think I saw..admiration?

After waiting the appropriate three minutes to thaw,  I found my nerve, grabbed Tina’s glasses off the floor, unlaced my gloves, and never went back to class. Boxing had started to seem like a really dumb hobby, dangerous in more ways than one. I decided to take up running. Getting run over by a car seemed like a gentler way to go than boxing with Frejah.

One of the guys who stayed, told me later that Frejah only got more abusive as the months went on (it was a twelve-week class) but that in his defense everyone who stayed (one heavily tattooed girl who was more masculine than Vin Diesel, and looked like she could kick the shit out of Frejah if given the chance—and five guys) —they all got REALLY good.

I guess that form of abuse “motivates” some people.

I met Tina that Saturday for coffee at Borders to give her back her glasses and basically say, “What the fuck, girl?!” I told her I wasn’t going back. Tina nodded, “Frejah sounds like all the voices in my head,” she said, “I don’t need to pay someone to talk to me like that!”

“I know. What a dick,” I agreed.

“But I can’t tell you how silent the voices have been since that night. I think I scared the shit out of them!” Tina laughed.
So did I.
Then she leaned in, “And for the first time in over three years I called my horrible father” she whispered like he might hear her. “How did Frejah know?” She looked at me with an odd combination of wisdom and naiveté.

“It’s his job. I think guys like that can smell it,” I said and went to order a giant slab of pumpkin bread so I didn’t have to think about how much I wanted to slug my shitty dad.

Maybe I should have kept boxing?

Carry on,
xox

Self-Care Tourettes

“You’ve arrived
It’s easy to fall in love with the GPS version of the universe.

There, just ahead, after that curve. Drive a little further, your destination is almost here.
Done. You’ve arrived.

Of course, that’s not how it works. Not our careers, not our relationships, not our lives.

You’ve always arrived. You’ve never arrived.

Wherever you go, there you are. You’re never going to arrive because you’re already there.

There’s no division between the painful going and the joyous arriving. If we let it, the going can be the joyful part.

It turns out that arrival isn’t the point, it can’t be—because we spend all our time on the journey.”
~ Seth Godin


Oh, brother Seth, where do I begin?

Did you write this just for me? Did a little birdy whisper to you how much I suck at the journey part of life?
Or was it the screaming, hair pulling, and the skywriting that said YOU SUCK JOURNEY! GIMME THE FUCKING DESTINATION ALREADY! —that gave me away?

It’s not that I haven’t improved—I have.
And it’s not that I haven’t reached some amazing destinations in my life—I’ve done that too.

But oh, mah, gawd, does it have to be such a slog?

Listen, it’s just that as zen as I try to be, as chill and non-attached as my facade makes me out to be, there is always an epic interior battle raging. A churning. A yearning. It’s the fucking Game of Thrones inside of me. And as hard as I try to quell it (and just to be clear, trying hard doesn’t stop a raging battle, trying hard are the foot soldiers, the ground troops) it looms ever larger in my brain.

And that’s the rub I think you guys. All of that striving and “are we there yet?” is in. My. Head. Not my heart. Not my kishkes, and definitely nowhere near where my intuition hangs out. It all goes off the rails when my head grabs the map away from my intuition and starts to second-guess everything.

“Do you think you should have turned left there?”

“Make a u-turn! NOW! I don’t care of it’s legal or not!”

“Oh, what a dumb move! Fine. Let me try and recalculate the route—but I have a feeling you’re wicked screwed.”

All of the second-guessing. Don’t you guys hate the second-guessing? God! I have been known to yell out loud to that wise guy second-guesser “Oh, yeah? Easy for you to say! Where were you when I was deciding what to do?”

Can you even have buyers remorse with regard to your ex? No? Then shut up!

And I have to report that THIS was a bit of a turning point for me. I set boundaries with the all of the mean voices inside my head who were making the journey a living hell. I told them that unless they had anything helpful, encouraging, or constructive to say—I didn’t want to hear it. Currently, my interior dialogue goes something like this:

“That was dumb…”
DON”T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!

“Are you sure you want to do that…?”
STICK A SOCK IN IT!

“They don’t seem interested in your…
SHUT THE FUCK UP!

“Huh, I would have done it differently…”
STOP TALKING. NOW!

See how that works? It’s self-care Tourettes.

Maybe you’re better at this than I am. Maybe you peacefully traverse your life like a passenger—holding a glass of champagne in first-class on British Airways. But I’m guessing you’re not because you’re here—you live on Earth so… I can’t guarantee it will work 100% of the time, and I have to admit that it gets exhausting, but it does help keep the clown car quiet. And that my friends is a definite improvement!

Carry on,
xox

Words Can Make You Sick ~ By Danielle LaPorte

I love her, I love this and I love you—so be kind to each other. xox

“I’ve got an idea,” I said to my Kid.

“Let’s talk smack to apples and see what happens.”

And thus began the Good Apple / Bad Apple (approximately) 25 Day (because we lost count) Experiment in our kitchen. I’m a fan of Dr. Masaru Emoto’s research on water and resonance. Apples would prove resonance theory. Sure enough….

Each half of the same apple sat in its own sealed jar on our windowsill. Throughout the day, we’d walk by and say to The Apple of Positivity, You are so awesome! You’re a winner! You are perfect, gorgeous, useful. We love you apple! Apple! You rock! We’d touch the jars, whisper, yell, laugh. Good apple!

As for The Apple of Negativity, well… I had a hard time being nasty to the bad apple, actually. My truly kind-hearted boy had a field day with it, though. Apple! You super suck! You no good, ugly, stinking piece of usefulness fruit.

Since I was having difficulty channeling my inner jerk face, I chose to use my words to program the apple to rot. I kept telling it what I wanted to happen: You’re rotting. You’re not worth my attention because you’re gonna rot. And you know what? I kind of hope you rot. You’re so rotten.

And look what happened. The Apple of Positivity that we loved up is well preserved and smiling. The Apple of Negativity that we verbally abused took an immediate, downward spiral into rotsville.

Words can make you sick. And heavy. And dark.

Words can make you light. And radiant. And energized.

Words infuse.
Words refuse.
Words bless.
Words protect.
Words energize.
Words heal.

Words create worlds because the universe is always listening.

… and so are your cells, your psyche, and your children, your team, and the apples.

Use your sonic power to create what you really want.

 

 

Get Away From Me , You Bitch

image

At dinner Monday night, the conversation, fueled by my favorite Italian wine, one of my all time favorite couples, candlelight and a table on the patio, led in its meandering yet revealing way, to talk of Resistance.

You all know how I LOVE that subject.

I’m convinced that the the more I can shine a light on that creative cockroach, sending him back into the shadows, the better off the world will be.

The food was epically delicious; like accidental drooling level good, yet it was eclipsed by the conversation because I got to discuss Resistance with someone who’s creative genius I admire beyond words.
He paints and he is also a musical wonder.
He writes, plays multiple instruments, and is a highly sought after producer.
But beyond that, he is disarming, present, engaging and humble as hell, which makes me LOVE him and want to put him in my pocket for safe keeping.

We have a similar relationship with the Muse, and obviously his channel is clear.
He keeps on delivering great work from her, year after year.

Still, he has his struggles with the beast, Resistance – he was just unaware of its name.

If you can’t name your enemy, how can you defeat it?
So now you have it, my friend.

Remember, this isn’t just for artists and writers, we are ALL creating SOMETHING, and Resistance is an equal opportunity saboteur.

Here are a few things we touched on:

*RESISTANCE IS INSIDIOUS
“Resistance will tell you anything to keep you from doing your work. It will perjure, fabricate, falsify; seduce, bully, cajole. Resistance is protean. It will assume any form, if that’s what it takes to deceive you. It will reason with you like a lawyer or jam a nine-millimeter in your face like a stickup man. Resistance has no conscience. It will pledge anything to get a deal, then double-cross you as soon as your back is turned. 
If you take Resistance at its word, you deserve everything you get. Resistance is always lying and always full of shit.”

That always lying and full of shit part; I’ve dated that guy.

All kidding aside, the implications of this seem daunting.
The level of commitment and fight, not to mention the sheer tonnage of alcohol and chocolate it will take to overcome; well, pick your poison and come sit by me, we have some serious strategy to employ.

This all makes me sick to my stomach because that fucker is in MY head.
It leads me to believe that it’s smarter than me, when it’s NOT. How could it be when it is using MY intellect – against me?

*RESISTANCE IS IMPLACABLE
Resistance is like the Alien or the Terminator or the shark in Jaws. It cannot be reasoned with. It understands nothing but power. It is an engine of destruction, programmed from the factory with one object only: to prevent us from doing our work. Resistance is implacable, intractable, indefatigable. Reduce it to a single cell and that cell will continue to attack.
This is Resistance’s nature. It’s all it knows.”

Resistance IS the Alien parasite that rides along with its host, fowling everything it encounters.

It’s an inside job; this ruining of our lives.
Much like the Alien/parasite, resistance doesn’t have the good sense to know it’s slowly and systematically killing its host.
Either that or it doesn’t care.

Both make me want to hurl, and then they make. me. angry.

Anger is good. It’s mobilizing. It short circuits victim hood
.
If Resistance lies within me, then, it is within my control.
Therein lies the Ah Ha.
MuuuuuHaaaaaaaa! (Diabolical laugh).
Control. Now you’re talkin’

If Resistance is the Alien inside, then I have no problem getting all Ripley on it.
Get away from ME – you bitch!”

I’d love to hear your struggles with Resistance and the ways you’ve battled the Alien. Did you realize it was an inside job? Does that make you feel more empowered? Talk to me.
Your comments help the tribe.

Much love,
Xox

*All excerpts from Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” (My bible)

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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