Body Addiction (part 1)

Over-Identification with anything in our life, be it our job, our looks, our mind, our status, our.........pick your poison.....is a prescription for suffering. For years, I over-identified with my body and my looks as a big source of my self-esteem, my masculinity, my confidence, and my MoJo. I was aware I was doing it, but I couldn't stop. It was, in every sense of the word, an addiction.

Hanging my hat on how I looked grew from being a fat kid, being teased for it, and having to buy special pants ("Huskies", a great marketing name for kids with expanding waistlines). At an early age, I developed a poor body image. I wasn't a fat kid for very long, between about the ages of eight and twelve. Unfortunately, those are probably the absolute worst years to pack on pounds, for a number of reasons. 

First of all, it's around then that the opposite sex stops becoming the enemy. Actually, I developed crushes on girls from as early as I can remember. I had the hots for my second grade teacher, Ms. Lindsey, Big Time. One of my babysitters, when I was about seven or eight, had the pleasure of having her long ponytail stroked by me whenever she would let me. She even let me tie her up in her bikini on the beach, and I wouldn't let her go until she promised my twin brother and I ice cream (I was a naughty, kinky outlaw from jump street).

Biologically, it's also at around that age that we gain more access to our pre-frontal cortex (the "upstairs brain") which is the part of the brain that does the thinking, is logical, and sees the world more for how it is. Although we have more access to it, the pre-frontal cortex is still very immature, and it starts making connections between itself and the lymbic system (the "downstairs brain", or the emotional center) that are't real. Like "I'm fat, it doesn't feel good, I must be defective". These neural pathways are very strong, and it takes a lot of work redirecting them when we get older. But if you put the time and effort in, it gets done. Meditation, Somatic Experiencing, EMDR, and a host of other techniques are making it possible to get to the root of the trauma and create new neural pathways; to basically re-wire our brain.

The bad timing double whammy regarding biological brain developmental and the shifting sands of social engagement meant that for me to get fat at that age had the potential to cause the most damage to my fragile ten year old ego. And it did. The scars of being a fat kid have stayed with me all through adulthood.

There are gifts in that wound, however. It motivated me to change my body once I learned how. It gave me the discipline and the motivation to work hard and persistently to get and stay in great shape; to have a physique that looks better than most men half my age. I doubt this would be the case if it wasn't for the pain I felt being a fat kid and never wanting to feel that pain again.

When I entered into treatment, I didn't look very good. I was thin, twenty pounds lighter than where I looked and felt best. I looked drawn, having lost a lot of muscle and too much weight in my face. For a man who could be guilty of hanging his hat on how he looked to define his sense of self, my coatrack had completely disappeared. I wasn't fat, but I certainly didn't like how I looked.

This was a blessing. No, I didn't like how I looked. I saw that fact in the mirror every morning. But I was so ready for something new; I knew that way of over-defining myself just did not work anymore. Before I even entered treatment, something in me knew I could not keep doing it that way. Something in me knew that I was slowly killing myself, and this fixation, this addiction, to how I looked had something to do with that.

The universe had severely limited my options. I couldn't go to my body or my looks to bolster my self esteem. I couldn't use substances to run away from the pain. I couldn't turn to an intimate relationship to get a sense that I'm indeed worthy of love. All I had was relatively emaciated me. 

But, as I soon found out, that was more than enough.

Join me for part two.

©2107 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Slut

 About five years ago, I saw a bracelet that had the word "SLUT" cut out of a piece of pink metal, so that the word "SLUT" occupied the negative space of the bracelet itself. And I had to have it. 

Why? Well, immediately, the concept of a heterosexual man wearing a pink metal bracelet that said "SLUT" on it appealed to me. The humor and irony of it was so powerful that buying it was a no brainer. It wasn't compulsive. It wasn't impulsive. It wasn't repulsive. It just made so much absolute sense to me. Just like painting my house bright purple, a color I loved, made such absolute sense to me.

Since I was a boy, I have spent considerable time digging into the depths of myself. And I will continue doing that long as I live. As far back as say eight or nine years old, I spent time within, asking myself questions, trying to answer them, creating an active and probing dialogue inside that could carry itself without anybody else there but me. 

I did this out of necessity, because I was a lonely kid, even though I'm a twin, and because there was something ticking inside of me that encouraged that dialogue; like a voice from within that I couldn't ignore. I knew that. And I knew that early. Thus, I practiced self-awareness and introspection before I had any concept of what the terms meant, before I even knew what I was   doing. Out of the necessity of loneliness, of feeling that I was the only person on the planet going through this and having nobody to talk about it with, I heard the deafening roar of my inner voice.

It was clear to me I was already very different from kids my age. I wanted to have the kind of discussions with my ten year old friends that I routinely had with myself. But I couldn't. Because none of them had a fuckin' clue as to where I was at. And, because I couldn't articulate what was happening inside of me to anybody but me. 

The cultivation of this inner dialogue created its own pros and cons. One of the biggest and most destructive cons is that it put me in my head an awful lot. Even as a kid, I went upstairs all the time. I don't have to tell you the myriad of mental and emotional issues spending too much time in your own mind can create. I don't have to tell myself either, because I've spent the last two months climbing my way out of the dark canyons that too much mental masturbation can cause.

One of the biggest pros is that I got to know myself, got to know what made me tick, at a very young age. I knew I was different. I knew my inner machine worked differently than others. I knew what rocked my world, what set my heart on fire. I can't say I was comfortable with it, because no kid wants to feel so different that they have trouble relating to other kids (I did). In fact, I was so uncomfortable with it that I didn't let it shine until I hit my teens. And when I did, I didn't just come out of my shell, I exploded out of it and left a crater where the old me was. That happened when I was eighteen. 

What does all that have to do with the "SLUT" bracelet? Well, because I was aware that I was different, because I was familiar with this inner dynamic since I was a kid, when I finally embraced it, when I finally owned it, I knew it was real, I knew it was a part of me that I couldn't get rid of, and I really liked it about myself because I was so familiar with it. That gave me the boldness and the confidence I needed to show it to the world, and damn the torpedoes. It gave me the strength to be myself in a world that didn't encourage that. Because I knew I had no choice. I knew this was who I was, so I better get used to it, even if other people couldn't. 

Back then, it wasn't so much a conscious decision as an unconscious one. I've spent considerable effort and life resources embracing myself on a more conscious level, driving it deeper and deeper into myself. That's made it easier to be me, to be a non-conformist and one unconventional MoFo in a culture that really doesn't value that as much as it claims.

It's not lost on me that some people who see me wearing the "SLUT" bracelet, especially if I am shirtless, will draw conclusions about me that are completely inaccurate. I get that what I wear (or what I don't wear) may create certain perceptions about me that are not reflective of who I really am and what I am truly about. I run into this at times. What I have come to understand, especially in light of my recent work, is that, with all due respect to those who have known me and decided to throw me away like yesterday's salad, it's not my problem if you can't reconcile me. It's not my problem if you don't "get me". If someone can not come to terms with all of me, with the vastness of who I am, then that is not something I need to spend any time on. I'm not saying it's anything they need to spend any time on either. But I know it's not a concern I'm going to waste anymore of my precious seconds worrying about.

This is because I'm more OK with me; I've had to learn to be, because I've been aware of it since I was a kid. But anyone can learn to be more accepting, more loving, of themselves, regardless of age. But it takes some desire and some work. 

And when the white pages of my book come out, I'll tell you more about how to do that......

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

No Longer A Choice

       Back in my mid twenties, I made the decision that, if I wanted to remain fit and healthy, resistance training, cardiovascular work, and eating right were mandatory. They were not optional. It was not only a conscious decision, but it required a very deep internal commitment. My heart and soul bought into it, as well as my mind. 

       Over the years - my few episodes of self-destructive behavior notwithstanding - that mental, physical, and emotional commitment was behind the consistent work I did to maintain great health and a nice physique. I wanted to look, and feel, a certain way. So I had to do certain things to get that. 

       In the past, I dabbled with yoga and meditation. I practiced inconsistently, sporadically, and sometimes, not at all. There was some mental resistance regarding both, and I can't even put my finger on what that resistance was, except to say that I wasn't very good at either. Now, I know some of you Yogis and meditation practitioners are going to say "There is no being 'good' at it, there is just the doing of it", or something like that, and you're right. But I'm talking about how I framed my experience, not wether my framing made any sense or not. It made sense to me at the time. I thought I sucked at it, so I didn't do it. Period.

       Looking back, that's a pretty childish attitude. And when my kid is running the decision making in any part of my life, that part of my life needs examining. For whatever reasons, I didn't stick with either yoga or meditation with enough consistency for them to make lasting impacts on my life. Basically, I thought I had the option of not doing them, and still being able to live a healthy life. 

       Well, I don't have that option anymore.

       The gift of desperation got me into treatment for depression, and treatment included practicing meditation and yoga consistently over the past two months. During that time, something shifted. Actually, a shit load has shifted in me over the past 60 days. My attitude towards meditation and yoga is part of a larger, deeper, more comprehensive awakening. But it's an important part.

       I've realized that I don't really have the option anymore to not meditate or practice yoga if I want to be healthy. Or certainly not if I want to be as healthy as I feel right now, and trending sharply upwards. They have become, along with resistance training, cardio, and proper nutrition, staples of my physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health. I've made an internal commitment towards yoga and meditation that was never there before. And that has made all the difference.

       What's really changed is my relationship to both practices. And when one's relationship, to anything, or anyone, changes, it can reverberate as a paradigm shift across one's life. Now, there's a certain "Something" that was never there before. Its kind of like when you find a special relationship with a special someone; there's a Je Ne Sais Quoi that's never been present before. That's how I feel about mediation and yoga now, versus how I felt about them say, a year ago.

       Maybe I had to get to the point where I no longer recognized my life so that I could save it. I certainly had ample opportunities in the past to develop practices. I've gone out with several women who were really into it. My last love is an accomplished instructor, and the most dedicated and passionate practitioner I ever met. When we were together, I did it more than I had in years (yoga and meditation, I mean.....and yes, the other thing too), but still not enough to make a big, lasting impact on my life.

       I remember telling her "I want more of what you have"; she was so grounded, so positive, quite present, and had more peace than I did (not to mention an absolutely beautiful, tight little body that was far more supple and flexible than mine). And she attributed a lot of that to her yoga and meditation practices. I really did want more of that, but, for whatever reasons, I wasn't ready to get it. Knowing what I know now, perhaps I just didn't believe I deserved it.

       My body was actually willing, because when we practiced together, she told me how receptive my body was to yoga. I couldn't feel that (to me it felt like I was fighting it the whole way) but she could. I realize now that my body was indeed willing, but my mind was not. My mind was in resistance mode. I'm grateful that I don't pay nearly as much attention to my mind as I used to. And, ironically, yoga and meditation have had a lot to do with that. 

       Now, I often actually look forward to both yoga and mediation, whereas before, I usually met both with a sense of obligatory dread - like taking castor oil; "I don't really like it, but I know it's good for me". For years, the gym, the earth under my feet when I ran, or the street under my wheels when I biked, were places - not only physical places, but places of the heart and mind - that fed me. Nourished me. Gave me something I couldn't get anyplace else. Lifting, running, and biking, gave me a rush of prolonged delight. Well now I can say that about the yoga studio, and about wherever I meditate, as well. 

       I still intend to be one jacked bad ass rocker. I'm just gonna be a more flexible, enlightened, grounded, and mindful jacked bad ass rocker.

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

Did I Build This Ship To Wreck?

In the middle of a rare night's sleep back in late February, I woke myself up crying from a dream I couldn't remember. That's unusual, because I have excellent dream recall. But back in February, I wasn't remembering very many dreams; probably because I wasn't dreaming; probably because I wasn't sleeping. Immediately restless, I jumped out of bed and made my way into the bathroom.

The first thing I did was I look in the mirror. Now, at that time, like Dracula, I was avoiding mirrors. The Prince of Darkness stays away from mirrors because he doesn't cast a reflection, so anybody who saw that would become......a little suspicious. Well I avoided mirrors out of fear as well. Not the fear that there wouldn't be anything staring back at me (although at that point, given my nocturnal preponderance, I couldn't say for sure that I hadn't turned into Nosferatu). No. I avoided mirrors because I was afraid of what would be staring back at me.

Well now, there I was. Staring at myself. In the dreaded mirror. And I was fuckin' horrified.

My eyes: The same ones that lit up like Christmas bulbs when they saw you. The same ones that lovers would stare into. The same ones that wanted to peer into your heart and soul. The same ones that used to be a vibrant shade of green that shifted hues depending on the light. Those same eyes had lost their sparkle. They had lost their shine. They had lost their color. Well, that's not completely true. They did have color. They were red. As in bloodshot.

They were also sunken. Sunken into a gaunt, grey face. A face that had also lost its color and vibrancy. A face still showing the many tracks of my recent tears. A face I really didn't recognize.

And my hair. Jesus. It was past "bed head". It was more like "dead head". And not the kind that's into that wacky band from Haight-Ashbury. 

For the first time in my life, I had absolutely no idea who the man staring back at me was. I had absolutely no idea of who I had become. Not only did that scare the crap out of me, but it broke my heart. Shattered it, really. And I didn't think my heart could get any more fractured. Shit, was I wrong.

Standing in front of that mirror, with a shattered body and a shattered heart, I lost it. Again. And again, it felt like a dream. A bad one. The worst kind. The kind you have when you're awake. I put my head in my hands, dropped to my knees, fell down, went into the fetal position, and balled my eyes out, right there on the bathroom floor. 

After a few minutes of that, I got up and looked at myself in the mirror again. I stared at the reflection, long and hard. I don't know why. It was horrible. But I kept staring. Something in me wanted to burn the image and the feeling so far into my soul that I would never forget it. The last time I did that, I was looking at my father, as he lay dying in front of me in the hospital, the nurses trying to jolt his body to life with a defibrillator. I didn't have any control over the life and death of my dad. Watching him die was the worst experience of my life. Now, it felt like I was watching myself die. 

Except, I sure as shit had power over my life and death. I sure as shit had power over what to do next. And living the rest of my life "phoning it in" like I had been wasn't on the fuckin' menu.

Then, as is so often the case, who shows up but My Forever Love. And once again, she saves my ass. I was literally starving: physically, emotionally, spiritually. Outta nowhere, she flies in from beyond and feeds me; giving me her beautiful, succulent, sexy, nourishing tit on which to suck. She kissed me all the way to my soul. She wrapped herself around me. Most importantly, she loved me, unconditionally, regardless of what I had done. Once again, Mistress Music reached in, grabbed my heart, and pumped new life into me.

As I looked in the mirror, I started singing this song by Florence + The Machine, "Ship To Wreck", in my head. Now I love that tune, but I hadn't thought about it for months. Now, all of a sudden, in the middle of this identity crisis of the soul, it pops into my head. I didn't even know many words, but I knew the melody, and it was calling to me like The Sirens called to Odysseus. 

So I run from the bathroom, grab my iPhone, my headsets, and crank it up. I listen to the words, I mean really listen, for the first time. I play the song, over and over again, until I can sing it from memory. 

The poignancy and power of the lyrics sent chills up my spine, put tears in my eyes (yup, more of those fuckers), started a fire in my belly, and created a storm in my heart. And I began singing. Loud.

"Don't touch the sleepin' pills, they mess with my head

Dredging up Great White sharks, swimmin' in the bed

And here comes a Killer Whale, to sing me to sleep

Thrashing the covers off, it has me by it's teeth

And oh, my love remind me, what was it that I said?

I can't help but pull the earth around me, to make my bed

And oh, my love remind me, what was it that I did?

Did I drink too much? Am I losin' touch?

Did I build a ship to Wreck?

To Wreck, To wreck, to wreck

Did I build this ship to wreck?"

I looked at my shallow face with the colorless eyes and my emaciated body. I had lost almost 20 pounds of muscle. What the fuck? I had spent most of my life taking great care of myself. Eating right. Exercising, as in religiously. I had gone from fat kid to fitness freak. I was a man who did the outer, and inner, work. Personal Growth was my middle name. Workshops. Books. Seminars. Kripalu. Omega. Emotional work. Spiritual work. Intellectual work. My entire life, I had continuously educated myself. I knew a lot, about a lot. I had my MBA, for Christ-sakes. Was I really OK with pissing it all away?

I kept looking at myself in the mirror. And it hit me. This was MY ship. MY Fuckin' Ship. I built this ship. Me. Me and the divine. And we didn't fuckin' build it to fuckin' wreck. 

We built it to sail. We built it to live. We built it to love. We built it to touch, and to be touched. We built it to laugh, to cry, to feel; we built it to drum, to create, to express; we built it to work, to play, to make love, to fall in love. We built it to learn, to grow. We built it to do all those delicious things that My Ship could do. 

No. I did not build this ship to wreck. 

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

Refuge Recovery And In Love With An Angel

       Last night, I attended a meeting sponsored by a group called Refuge Recovery (www.refugerecovery.org). It was held at a space in Santa Monica run by an organization called Against The Stream (www.againstthestream.com). The approach blends Buddhist teachings and recovery principles to facilitate a very supportive and loving sangha (community).

       The meeting resonated with me very deeply. When I get home, I'll become part of the community in Boston, where Refuge Recovery is apparently very big.

       We meditated. We practiced and discussed Buddhist principles, such as mindfulness, loving kindness, forgiveness, generosity, and compassion; particularly towards oneself. And, when it came time to share, a lot of people stated, proudly, to be originally from the east coast. There were an especially large contingency of New Jersey transplants. 

       Well now. Let's see. Buddhism. Meditation. New Jersey. It caused me to think of someone very special. And it inspired me to share this poem I wrote about her......

IN LOVE WITH AN ANGEL

In Love with an Angel

My heart exploded

Sweet Emotions

Rained like bold and beautiful

Divine and benign shrapnel

All over my life

With her wings on the inside

She helped me fly

To places I've never been

To places we've never been

One night

In a dance of fire and flesh

She asked me, "What is this?"

I whispered

"I think we both know what this is"

The words speaking themselves

As if Love itself was talking

In Love with an Angel

Felt like nothing else

Heaven on earth

I found her

She found me

Dreams came true

God smiled

- Clint Piatelli

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