#everytime these drums hit i lose control of my body

[bakudo4]

[kyokushinpunk]

Martial arts and personal epiphanies

(tw : mental illness, child abuse)

This is a very personal post.

Have you ever thought “I’m not doing this right at all” at some point in your martial arts career ?

I spent my frustrating two months off the gym thinking about what was wrong with my savate. After three years, I was still too slow, leaving way too much openings, easily losing balance and mostly way too sloppy with the typical savate footwork.

Since I can only hit the gym about twice a week, I’ve turned to do cardiokickboxing in my room, changing stuff like knee strikes to chassés.

And I realized something during a workout that’s a big game changer for me.

I’m not a southpaw.

Since I started savate and even when I was practicing vovinam as a kid, I had a southpaw stance. I’m right handed and it felt natural to have my strong arm and my strong leg in the front : I can take more damage, they’re closer to my target so I can hit better / harder / faster, etc etc. But during the cardiokick workouts, I had to switch sides each 10 reps. And the more I progressed, the more I realized : when I take an orthodox stance, I am insanely more balanced, faster and precise, my form is better and my footwork feels liberated, light, I feel like I can actually move and put weight in my strikes. I realized I’m not a southpaw : I was DEFENSIVE. I had a defensive stance, always, taking damage and hits and not actually trying to attack, be offensive and go forward. I was making myself into a goddamn target and was basically just trying to take as much punishment as I could.

And this is something that touches deep into myself, my life and my personal history.

Without going into too much detail, I had a hard life. I’ve known abuse, homelessness, PTSD and I suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder.

One of the deepest issues that I have, besides the symptoms of BPD, is that I’ve been raised by someone with narcissistic personality disorder, and was groomed into becoming a personal punching bag (both physical and emotional). I grew up with the sole purpose of being someone’s way of feeling better through abuse of power. And I developed bad defensive reflexes that have propped up in every aspect of my life. I curl into an emotional ball, “grey rock”, go numb, and just take the punishment. It creeped into the dissociating of BPD (and I’m 90% sure it’s partly responsible for my bpd). It was one of the survival reflexes I had to develop.

Another was to lean exclusively on my strongest features to exist / escape. Diving head-on into my obssessions (music being the first). Relying solely on them because they made me feel safe and in control.

What the fuck does it have to do with martial arts and my boxing stance ?

EVERYTHING.

I’m right-handed, I play guitar and bass and drums right handed, this is definitely my strongest hand. This is the one I know I control. THIS IS WHAT MAKES ME FEEL SAFE. So what do I do in a situation where I’m taking physical hits, fast, to the head ? I put up what makes me feel safe, my strongest ally : my right arm. Parrying, hitting... It comes naturally because it’s a defensive reflex built for survival purposes as a kid, because that’s what  I would put up when they came at me with volleys of slaps and backhands with sharp rings... It’s not a martial arts stance, it’s a survival reflex. It’s defense. It’s tension. It’s my lizard brain telling me I’m in danger, while I’m supposed to work and think about what I do.

Why was I exclusively defensive, troubled with offense and attacks and never stepping in to attack, barely moving, not using my strongest, most stable leg to move more effectively and keep my balance especially in a martial art that is based on KICKS and knowing that’s my better point ? Because I had been groomed into NOT responding to attack. When your own parents come at you for physical violence, you’re just a kid. You don’t have enough strength to respond, so you learn to take the damage. You learn to do with the pain, you go numb, you escape and just take it all in. You know that if you dare to answer, they have ten times your strength and you won’t be able to do anything. And... that’s your family. You’ve been groomed by everyone and  everything to trust them and that they know what they’re doing. So going into savate, going willingly into some place where I took the same kind of physical damage I’d get while a child... everything came back. I took the damage, I put up my strongest arm, I gray rocked and became numb and got depressed by my low level, while still having so much fun everytime I got to spar, learning technique and history and meeting more people.

I’ve been boxing with an orthodox stance for the past week. Everyday. Rethinking my typical combos, my form. Everything makes so much more sense now. My one-twos are fast and precise, my rear leg kicks (which are now with my right leg) much more precise and DON’T THROW ME OFF BALANCE, I don’t get dizzy after spinning kicks because my head moves the right way, I’m lighter on my feet because my rear leg, more powerful, propels the rest of my body and gives me stability...

I’m allowed to attack. I’m allowed to defend myself. Hell, I am LITTERALY practicing a sport which is about hitting other people and they’re okay with it because they’re here exactly for that (how often have I told beginners this when they hit me hard :  “it’s ok, I’m here for that”). Everything I know about technique, not only savate but all the other things I learned through reading, observing, discussing, sparring, makes so much more sense in that stance, in an actual martial art stance, from the point of view of someone who practices a combat sport for fun and not someone who is defending himself for survival. Maybe that point of view was why I understood more savate défense ? Honestly, at that point, I don’t care.

I feel like I hit a true milestone in my understanding of both martial arts and myself. A fellow tireur once told me “La savate, c’est l’école de la vie.”. “L’école de la vie“ is a french expression that means “the school of hard knocks”, where you learn about life itself.

Practicing martial arts allowed me to harness my rage, basically cured the rage fits I had about everything (something acknowleded by my therapists). But today, it taught me something about my own life, something about myself, something deep that no therapy or medication could have taught me.

I met myself at a martial arts gym, and it made me a better person.

[allmymisters]

Dark Days II

There is no playlist for this section because during this time I listened to nothing, but the din of the hospital and those surrounding me.

"I'm sorry Mrs. D. Most people don't survive this. You understand you will be making all decisions regarding his welfare from here on in?" I shook my head slowly. "You all can see him now." This is the part I hated. I had pins and needles in my hands and began to perspire a little. I felt confused, disoriented. We walked in through the large metal double doors. The nurses' station was buzzing with phones, paperwork, and general ICU hurriedness. I entered the small room with your parents. I gasped a little, as I followed the immense amount of tubes coming off of you. You lay there, asleep. There's nothing worse than feeling as helpless as I felt that day. I still couldn't cry and I had a million thoughts roaming through my head as the incessant beeping blared at me.

Oh my God. What is this? How did this happen? What happened? Is he going to die? If he dies, then what? If he doesn't, how do I take care of him? How are we ever going to pay for this? He's going to get better right? If there's any powers which exist, please show me that he's going to be fine. How long will it be until he's better...

The thoughts just kept swirling in a millisecond of time as the nurse adjusted the tubes and all I could concentrate on was the beeping. That fucking beeping drove me crazy because the beat wasn't right! I kept trying to time it out, but it was random. Sometimes another beep would accompany it, some were short and some were long. It made me anxious because I thought, what happens if it stops? Is it suppose to be random like that? These are the words, but the thought was actually one long beep. Then your mom dropped to her knees. At this moment, she lost it. She started screaming and crying as only a mother would react to such a sight. She held your hand tight and covered your body the way a wife does on her husband's grave, and kept repeating, "Not again, not again, not my son!" I looked on as though I was part of some strange nightmare.

The tears started streaming down my face and I just stared at you. Your mother lost her first child, a daughter to miscarriage and I don't think she ever let that go. I'm no mother. I don't know what that feels like. I just know what it feels like to lose a husband. I hugged your parents and cried with them. I couldn't stand the sight of seeing you so incapacitated. We hadn't seen each other in weeks and now I get to see you with tubes coming out of you as though you were some human dead battery.

When situations of this magnitude happen, I tend to leave my body. I'm distant and processing. We weren't out of the dark and at this point we were just seeing if you could stay alive. During this time I noticed the waiting room beginning to fill up with friends. Your bandmates from all three bands you were in, your drum mentors, your students, and eventually your brother and his girlfriend. Now, it was a hurry up and wait game and friends began to enter your room to see you in clusters, exiting with complete disbelief and emotion rarely ever seen in them. I think the friend I saw the most affected was JDawg. To see someone who has always been comic relief for us, cry like that, was not easy. I would like to also note at this time I was doing my best to inform others of your status through Facebook. It was my only connection to the outside world at this point besides the phone calls. I think I had so many text messages the day of, I had to delete some to make room for others.

H had shown up immediately after notice of your injury. I had expected her to be there, she was your student and you two had become good friends and I was thankful she was in New York when I couldn't be. She had immediately started planning a fundraising campaign for you and was going over some logistics with your dad in the parking lot the first day I arrived. She had said we could set up a trust in your name that the money would be put into. I thought it was a good idea.

She had shown up each day after and sometimes during the evenings, bringing people with her. I found it strange that she was parading people in your room that you had not met before, introducing them to you as though you were about to have dinner together. She was consistent in her visits and it was sweet that she cared so much. She came another day on her bike, all sweaty and tired, strands of her ginger hair stuck to her forehead. "I had to come see him after the race, we were suppose to do it together, " she announced. 

What the fuck is she talking about? What race? He was doing a bike race? Oh God, she's crying again. Should I be crying more? I guess it's a hard a day for her.

"Don't you find her emotion quite strange," Susan whispered in my ear. "Does it?" I replied. I looked back down and kept reading my magazine, but it did crawl into my ear and rest right outside my thoughts.

I spent most of the days in the waiting room. I wasn't the wife who was holding her husband's hand while the nurses and doctors buzzed around her, switching tubes, checking heart rates, and temperature. I wasn't the wife who was asked to leave the room so you could rest where I defiantly stood up and said, "You're gonna have to crowbar me outta here lady, cause I'm not leaving his side." I admit, it seemed like a dick move. I just knew I could contain myself better and not affect the energy it would take to make you better, because you were going to get better. It was all I could do to keep all the pieces together. In the next few days, I spent most the time making sure your parents didn't need anything and playing host to the plethora of visitors. You had visitors all day long and they amassed over the hours, taking turns going in and out of the metal doors. I'm sure the nurses were somewhat disturbed by the amount of people entering and exiting that room. My job was hostess, there to greet and meet the guests, yet everytime one of "your" people came in, it was awkward. In the past eight months you had managed to build a whole new group of friends I had never met before.

You're a fighter, you've always been when it came to the things you wanted. When you had set your sights on something you worked at it vigorously and positively. You were going to get what you wanted. It didn't surprise me that in day three you had started to move body parts. It wasn't consistent, but it was happening and all I thought was, I knew he could do it! We were excited by this news and I was happy to share on Facebook the accomplishment. I walked in the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the sink. As I stared in the mirror, I thanked the powers that be and started doing that smiling cry kinda thing., the one that is now deemed "ugly cry". You were going to get better, there was no doubt.

At this time, I too had visitors. If I hadn't, I would not have been aware or even present mentally. Susan kept me occupied with smiles and magazines. Alex kept me thinking positively and asked the right questions. Nicole and Bradly, although remote, deciphered medical jargon for me. Heather, Ingrid and Tonya on the phone constantly with me, making sure I was ok and wanting to know the updates. Kathy protected me, asked the doctors the right things and provided a hotel room for rest and showers. The days were sprinkled with Richmond and New York and it was comforting, but it soon became overwhelming and I wouldn't have my ladies there to hold my hand anymore.

We had a routine going where we would stay in your room in shifts. Needless to say, sleeping was scarce and even though I wanted to be in that room with you each night, it was nerve wracking with the beeps and listening to you breathe and cough and cry. When you cried, it felt as though someone was burning pieces of my heart inside me. Nothing brought me more pain than to see the realizations that came in the days to come. Those were the days I died inside. Those were the hardest of them all, you choking on your tears and not being able to utter one word. It was just these loud moans full of tears and I sat there...helpless. I could offer you nothing, but my own tears. Your hands felt so heavy and numb.

"I really would like to ask that he not have any visitors today," I said pleadingly to your parents. They proceeded to ask me why and I explained that you were quite distraught the night before and I think that you need rest if you are to recover. They agreed---until they didn't.

Your parents do what they always do, they took over. I can't say I blame them. We were all exhausted and your mom ran the waiting room like she ran her household, making sure everyone was fed and reading voraciously. I spent the days placing and answering calls and updating everyone. It wasn't long until resistance came. After announcing the no visitors rule for the day I went downstairs for coffee and my morning calls in the parking lot of the hospital. As you know, your parents have a tendency to want to control situations and I felt they were not going to be on board with the decisions I had made in my head. 

I got in the elevator and was looking forward to a day without people coming in and out, to just be with the family. I sat down and was getting ready to go through my daily feed, when I heard the metal doors shut and then she turned the corner and walked up to your parents in tears. I was livid and I didn't hide my emotions very well. "I thought we said NO visitors today," I said calmly through pierced lips. Anne had said she wanted to drop by and she didn't know there wasn't going to be any visitation. I just put my head down and stared at the words on my phone, hot with anger. The words "FUCK" typed so easily at that moment, the name I had adhered to mine for seven years followed. Yeah, I did that. To this day, I don't care that I typed those words and hit "Share". At this moment, the energy for me shifted, the attitude towards me transformed, and the days after would reveal more than I wanted.

WE saw what you what you wrote on Facebook. Is this the way you treat us? You will not tell us when he can have visitors. All that matters is what is good for HIM, not YOU. You seem to have this chip on your shoulder and you need to get over it. IF HIS friends want to visit him, they WILL.

Enter alternate universe. I had to cool off so I went downstairs for another coffee, you know, because I needed calming. When I returned, your father felt the need to shout these words in my face in the waiting room for all to hear. You know that feeling you get when you're about to fight someone? The one where you're angry and fearful at the same time. The one where the witty comeback doesn't actually come? Yeah, that was me in this moment. I was humiliated and felt very small and confused as to how your parents knew about the posting. I sat in the chair, as though I had been sent to the principal's office and they were threatening to call my mom after catching me with a cigarette. Anne sat way across from me watching while I asked your parents what they were upset about. The entire family proceeded to leave the waiting room. The next thing I know, your future sister-in-law aggressively saunters across the room straight for Anne. She bends down to her eye level and then the words came.

You need to leave. This is now a family matter and you need to go. You aren't welcomed here and you're causing problems, so I'm going to ask you leave and not come back.

I looked up in shock. She stood up and began walking my way, as she mumbled bye to me, as though she were a puppy that just pissed on the floor, I didn't know what just happened. J walked over and sat next to me. She told me Anne had showed your parents what I had posted. They didn't have Facebook, so why did I care what I wrote, but she did and since we were friends she could see what I had been writing. Your mom then entered the room in tears. "How could you do that to us," she sobbed. "How could you leave him!" That knife went in quite slowly and left the words "betrayal" etched in my heart. I apologized, profusely. I was emotional. I didn't know what I was doing. And I know, you know me better than that.