Scary Risky Poetry

Lovers everywhere: write each other poetry. Then share it with one another. Sound scary? Afraid you can't write poetry? Good. That means this is a stretch. A risk. A jump off a cliff where you can't see the water. Where you have to have faith. In yourself. In each other.

Those very things are the ingredients for excitement, for newness, for discovery. Finding something out about your partner you might not know. Creating something from your heart and sharing it with someone you love. Being vulnerable. Cultivating Intimacy. Deepening connection. Love. 

From experience I can tell you that this is a beautiful practice. And it can be a prelude to some dynamite love making. When you put yourself out there for your lover, you not only show that you care, but that you're willing to put your neck on the chopping block. That you truly show up for each other. And that's very sexy. Writing poetry to each other is like the kind of risks you took with one another when you were first mutually wooing and falling in love. Those risks are necessary in the beginning, because you don't know each other, and the only way to get to know each other is to lay it out there, the best you can, and see what happens. 

Well, I maintain that those types of risks are precisely the risks you need to take with each other as your relationship matures, grows, and stabilizes. Because when you no longer take risks with each other, things start getting stale. Writing poetry to one another is one simple way to take a risk that can put some zing back into things. 

Anybody who is literate can write poetry. It just takes some courage, some willingness, and some vulnerability. It takes mutual respect and safety. And it can also build those very traits it requires, no matter how small the quantity of those qualities are in the beginning. It's a way to reconnect to each other. 

Don't make it out to be more difficult or scarier than it really is. If you have trouble opening your heart, writing poetry can be a gentle crowbar. 

I share with you a poem I wrote for a very special woman. I'm not sure if I had the opportunity to share it with her or not. But we wrote poems to each other. And it was beautiful. 

Take the risk. Bear more of yourself than you dare. And see what happens. There will be some magic there. Be available for that magic. Look for it. It's there. In the words you write. In the sharing you do. In the beats between your hearts.

For You With You By You

i wish 

for just a moment

you could crawl inside my heart 

and feel what I feel 

for you

for no other reason

than to share 

with the only other person that this matters to

a singular, unique, expression

that has never made sense

that will never make sense

even to me

unless i share it

with you

like one hand clapping

there is no meaningful sound

unless it is echoed

by that very special other

by you

 - Clint Piatelli

©2016 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Dynamic Duo of Dysfunction

Once again, my demons have shown up in my living room. And they've shown up screaming.

As I write this, depression is opening its mouth once more, daring me to stick my head into it. Depression also has a sidekick who's very powerful. That sidekick is Perfectionism. Sticking my head into that mouth means giving myself a break, because tonight, I made a big mistake. Maybe I'm more afraid of that mouth than depression right now.

They're a rough Dynamic Duo of Dysfuntion, that pair. Because when I make a mistake, what can lead me into depression are the horrible things I say about myself, to myself. That kind of thinking is the root of many an evil. Even after all the work I've done, all the progress I've made, it's clear I have more to do. I mean, I know that. I'll always know that. I'll always have more to do. This isn't the type of thing I'm ever going to be "done" with. Anymore than I'll ever be "done" with working out, or meditating, or enlightenment. 

The universe has given me an opportunity for my rubber to meet the road. Another test. So far, I've met every challenge, I've met every fear, head on. I have not felt fragile, until right now. Suddenly, the voices are loud, and mean, and calling for my hide. The angry mob in my head are wielding clubs, and torches, and stones. And the fucked up thing is, they think they're helping me. "This pummeling is for your own good", they chant. "This will toughen you up". Yeah. That's worked so well for me before. 

Unlovable. Unacceptable. No good. A defective model. The neural pathways of Toxic Shame vie for the fuel they need to burn themselves deeper into me. To re-establish their status. All this, triggered by a very human error. Where's my self-love when I need it most? Like, right now. 

Okay demons, let's have some tea together, once more. Open your mouths wide. Because I'm coming in. Head fuckin' first. I'm not going to bed tonight until I do. So no uncaffinated jasmine sleepy time shit for you. Load up the high octane stuff. Because you're going to need it. And bring your A Game. 'Cuz I'm bringin' mine. 

What are you trying to teach me, demons? You didn't expect that question, did you? That's because I'm done fighting with you. Someone very wise once said to me, "When you throw punches, you get punches thrown back". And I'm tired of beating myself up. All that did was bring untold tons of pain and suffering. Are you reminding me, yet again, that harsh judgment of myself, of others, impedes my healing and my growth; that such judgment is a wall to connection? A wall to love?

Are you challenging me to love myself through a mistake? In the past, I've pretty much sucked at that. Are you testing my metal? Tell me. Because I'm listening. Which is something else you haven't got used to. I've been doing that for months now, and you're still surprised by it. Get used to it. There's a lot I need to learn, yes. But this is my fuckin' house. You can trash it, burn it, violate it in every way you can imagine. And I'm still gonna ask you to sit down and have tea with me. Maybe someday you'll get used to that. It would make life easier for all of us in here.

Maybe you're letting me know you haven't gone away. That you'll never go away. Because you're a part of me. And, as great as I've felt over the past few months, I can't ever forget that. And maybe I did, just a little. Maybe I'm guilty of some hubris. And maybe you're showing me how dangerous hubris can be.

I'm leaving here in a few days. I'm leaving a place I love. I'm leaving people I love. I'm leaving work I love. There's an awful lot of sadness inside because of that. Maybe you're reminding me to show it. Maybe you're reminding me not to stuff that sadness, that pain, that loss, that grief, like I did back in November. Maybe you're teaching me that that's not me anymore. And you're giving me the chance to prove it. To the only person I need to prove it to. Me. 

The same woman who warned of throwing punches also encouraged me to "Turn poison into medicine". And I'm doing that, right now. I see the value in my mistake. I get the lessons you've come to teach me. Thank you. We'll do this again some time, I'm sure. 

Now get the fuck out. I'm going to bed.

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights (and wrongs) reserved.

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. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Clint & Little John

A very powerful skill I developed during treatment was the ability to parent myself when I most needed to. Most adults have difficulty connecting to their inner kid. They find it difficult to really let themselves go, to release their inhibitions, to give that kid space in their life, and to allow that kid to come out and play. That is not my challenge. I'm very connected to my inner kid. He's alive and well, shows up all over my life, and contributes a lot to my personality. 

 One of the ways I define a person who is whole is that they have a balance between the elements of themselves that are childlike and the elements of themselves that are adult. When I am at my best, when I am most fully alive, when I am living my life at maximum throttle, I achieve harmony between my inner child and my adult, my Man. When I'm in balance, both are present simultaneously; both show up powerfully; both provide valuable contributions to who I am. They compliment each other perfectly.

In my last intimate relationship, my love paid me a beautiful compliment when she told me how much of a man I was. I could also be the boy with her. What she was able to do was help bring out the best in me. She made it easy for me to be my full self, or at least the fullest self I was capable of then; that's what people who truly love us usually do. Being madly in love with the woman I wanted to share the rest of my life with, my Man knew he had to show up, and he wanted to show up. I wanted to be there for her. I wanted to be there for myself. And, she brought out my kid as well. I was incredibly silly and playful and childlike with her too. Again, I brought a fuller self. I know I did the same for her. I brought out her Goddess and her little girl. That was part of the magic between us.

Notice I didn't say "Flawless Self". I was far from perfect. I fucked up plenty. But I was more balanced. More whole. More fully Me. The Kid and the Man both showed up, simultaneously, powerfully. And the Man could usually parent that kid, if need be, when I was with her. It's when I wasn't with her, when I was alone and left to my own devices, that I got myself into trouble being unbalanced. At that period of my life, when I wasn't with her, my kid ran the show far too often.

My Man didn't know a lot about parenting my inner kid when that kid was suffering. Whenever this kid was in a lot of pain, I was in a lot of pain. I had trouble separating myself from the kid when the kid was in real agony. That's when My Man would often disappear. In treatment, I learned, literally, to bring my Man, my adult self, into the conversation and talk to this inner child when my inner child acted up, when he was in pain, when he was afraid, when he didn't want to do something he needed to. My parents, god bless them, weren't very good at that, so I had no role model on how to parent myself when things got really difficult or really painful. I had to create that parent from scratch, with the help of a very skilled therapist. 

The crazy thing was, when I dug deep, my Man knew exactly how to talk to this kid. I knew what to say and how to say it. Because I knew this kid so well, loved him so much, and knew he needed my Man. And because the Man in me was there and well developed (my ex-love saw that, everyone in treatment saw that, and so have lots of other people in my life). My man could show up for other people, especially when they were in pain and needed a strong, loving presence. It was myself I had trouble showing up for. I needed lots of help accessing that Man at some of the times when I needed him most. Like when my kid was suffering. Like when my kid was trying to run the show. And like when I was depressed.

One of the biggest "Aha!" Moments whilst in treatment (one of biggest "Aha!" Moments of my life, actually) was the realization that the constant negative self talk within my own head wasn't my adult talking. It was my kid. For all these years, when I would hear that voice, I had assumed it was my present self. It isn't. I started telling myself I was no good pretty young. I've often said I'm a much happier adult than I ever was as a kid. That kid was afraid, lonely, didn't like himself, felt unloved, unworthy, and unacceptable. That voice stayed with me. That voice was always in my head; sometimes just as background noise, like a tape loop you can't turn off, even when I felt good and things were going well. And sometimes, that voice was as loud as fuck, all I could hear, and drowned everything else out. When I learned that that was my kid, I found a way to talk to that voice, to that kid, as a Man. As a parent. The more I did it, the better I got at it. It's another practice I will continue for the rest of my life. 

I got an assignment to write a letter to my inner child. I called this child "Little John". A perk of changing your name when you get older is that, when you talk to your inner child, you can refer to him as your former name. It actually helped me separate the kid from the adult in me, which, could be challenging when both share such a strong presence within me. I wrote this letter to "Little John" as Clint; as his parent; as the Man I am today. 

When I got the assignment, I let the idea percolate and marinate inside me for a few days before actually writing it. WhenI did sit down to do it, it was like magic. The words pored out of me. It felt as though I was a channel. It took me under two hours to write, and it was over eight long legal pages long. And once I started writing, I didn't stop until I was done. No editing. No rewording. I did it long hand because I had forsaken all electronics during treatment. 

Writing that letter was truly transformative. When I read it to my group, the experience was profound. My therapist called it "A Masterpiece".

I'll be sharing direct excerpts from that letter in upcoming posts. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved. 

Love Warning