39 Days At Clint University (Body Addiction part 3)

The telling of our own story can be a sacred process. Whether we Write about it, Sing about it, Talk about it, Teach about it, Paint about it, or Fuck about it - which, heads up, lovers everywhere, we do all the time, whether we know it or not.

Telling our story becomes Sacred, in any endeavor, when we consciously communicate something deep about who we are. Because, when we consciously share a piece of ourselves, we create the potential to truly connect to someone else. And in that connection, in that vulnerability, we open up the potential to heal. And we all need healing. Because we are all in pain. We all have wounds. And we all want those wounds to stop bleeding.

There's magic in getting Yourself to the page, or the canvas, or the stage; there's magic in getting it out there, in any way you choose. The Magic is that, in that process, Your Journey crystallizes itself. It becomes clearer, more real, more accessible. Not only to others, but more crucially, to yourself. In the very telling of it, you Really Get It. It might be the only way you Really Get It. The art of digging deep into yourself, of putting your journey together, of synthesizing events, feelings, relationships, and thoughts, is itself positively transformative. 

As I write about the last six months of my life, I get the gift of embodying my own Hero's Journey in a way that would never happen if I didn't choose to express it. I share my tale in the hopes that it will move others, yes; that it may inspire, motivate, enlighten, or in any way benefit another person. But I primarily do it for me. Writing about it gives me the chance to pull it apart, to look at it, to understand it, to embody it, and to glean from it that which would never be possible without the act of having to communicate it.

There are times when I literally say to me myself "What the hell happened to me?". But, instead of coming form a place of self-judgment (which is often the case when we say those words), it comes from a place of empowerment. 

In residential treatment, I was looked upon as a leader, and indeed, was one. I was working on myself as hard as I could. I was totally into it. My energy was electric, my attitude infectious. I wore my desire for growth like a second skin that you could see, touch, taste, and smell. That actually disturbed some people at first, who said to me "When I first met you, I thought to myself, 'This guy can't be for real' ". But once they got to know me, they knew how real I was. How real my desire was. They got that my passion, that my love, was indeed genuine. They let their guard down, and we connected. 

I took the work as seriously as I've taken anything in my life. It was a conscious choice, but not a difficult one. Because I was desperate; my heart, mind, body, and soul all knew that, in order to kick out the jams of my own maladaptive thinking and dysfunctional behaviors, I had to get deadly serious about it. Because if I didn't, there was a chance that I would die. Maybe not literally, but figuratively. I'd be dead on the inside. As it was, I was close enough to the Grim Reaper Within. I didn't want an official house call. 

The whole experience of reaching my bottom, pulling myself back, and powerfully connecting to a entire community, has been profound. It is living testament, at a time when I needed it most, that I could be all of myself with a community of people who didn't yet know me, and be embraced, loved, and respected for all of me. I brought it all: the bright lights, the neon glow, the shining love, the huge heart, the deep thinker, the intelligent scholar, the very playful kid, the wild dude, the rocker musician, the vulnerable teddy bear, the maverick free spirit, the flawed substance abuser, the frightened & hurting little boy, the heartbroken lover, the powerful man.

My light shined very brightly, and I shared that light. Quite a turnaround from about six weeks before, on my birthday, one of the lowest point of my life, when my light was so dim a firefly would outshine it.

For the first time in my life, I fell in love with who I am. Warts and all. So did the people I was with. And it had nothing to do with how buff I was (because I was anything but). They didn't care what I looked like. Neither did I. They cared about who I was. About what I was. They responded to what I brought to life, from the inside out. They responded to what I brought to their life. They responded to how much I loved them. It was like being in 120 intimate love relationships at once. I cared so much about these people, and I showed it. They cared so much about me, and they showed it. We showed up for each other, dozens of times a day, for 39 days. They changed my life. And I changed theirs. 

Tell me that's not the most beautiful polygamy you could imagine. 

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