Perspective+on+Pain

I’ve never ever told anyone in my life this, as a matter of fact, I haven’t even really thought that much about it until recently. It’s astounding how something that you did every day as a child and teenager, and was a symptom of something under the surface in your soul becomes something that you never think about. Then some 25 years later, with no provocation that you can point to, you get slapped in the face with the force of a sledge hammer when you realize that you are a broken person. To be fair, I believe that most people are broken in one way or another; some in a tragic way and some with more fragile edges, some are more crushed, some have been broken and put together so many times that their scar tissue is actually what is holding them together. I’m not a mental health professional, but I am a pretty astute observer of people. It's been one of those survivor skills I've developed through the years. Unfortunately, I think I’ve spent so many years looking outward, I never took the time to look inward. I never saw my own brokenness for what it was. Yes, I have had traumatic things happen in my life. Haven’t we all? Yes, I’ve suffered loss of many types. Again, so have we all. My losses and my traumas are no worse than anyone else. I never thought I was a special person who deserved any kind of favors. I had developed enough coping mechanisms on my own, that I always managed to make due.

Then my broken epiphany happened.

I was doing laundry. That’s it. Just doing laundry. It was a normal day. I was at home. I wasn’t in any type of hurry. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. I was just moving wet clothes from the washing machine into the dryer when I had a flash back to my younger self with a loose tooth. It wasn’t my first loose tooth, but it was early in my tooth losing years. I remember that feeling of the tooth that unexpectedly shifts a little bit when your tongue bumps against it. I remember the iron taste of the blood as it touches my tongue. I also remember feeling a little bit lost because it was the first loose tooth I had had since my dad had passed away. Up to this point, he was the one I would be most excited to tell about this new development, just as soon as he made it home from work. He would always make a joke about getting his pliers or tying a string to it and the other end to a door knob and slamming the door. He would laugh and try to wiggle it a little bit. I could taste the saltiness of his skin that would linger on my tooth. Then he would tell me to keep wiggling it a little bit every day and then it would come out when it was ready. I would diligently do so until I finally got up the courage to pull it out. Then I would run to him with my bloody mouth and tooth in hand. He would make the obligatory tooth fairy remark and I would anxiously await whatever money I would have under my pillow the next morning. This time was different. Dad wasn’t there. My mom was and of course I told her I had a loose tooth, I was maybe 8 years old so there was no way I could keep that quiet. She would make some of the same jokes and she would be excited. But for some reason, this time was different for me and I did something that started to become a habit. My tooth was only a little bit loose. But I wanted it to come out. So, I would push it and pull it, push and pull, push and pull… It was painful. More pain than I, as a young girl, had ever felt but I wanted to see how much I could take. I wanted to be in control of the pain I was experiencing and I wanted to know how much I could take and so I did. I continued to do things like this. Don’t get me wrong. I never cut myself or did anything too drastic, but I did things on purpose to see how much I could take. I would sit in a squat until my legs would give out. Then I would do it again. I would allow my hand to get slammed in doors to see if I could take it without crying.
These images flooded my brain while I was standing in the laundry room with wet jeans in my hand.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?? I thought.
Then I started digging a little deeper. I thought of the choices I’ve made in my life, knowing full well there was danger, knowing full well there would be pain. I did them anyway because in my head, I was going to be able to withstand it. I took a lot of pride in my toughness. I had two babies, they tried to give me drugs, but they would stall my labor, so I took pride in the pain. I would go without food for as long as I could to see how I would handle that. That turned into an eating disorder after the birth of my second child because I sure did like how skinny I got. I would run as far as I could as fast as I could just to see how my body responded. To see how much I could take even when I hadn’t eaten in 3 days.
I started doing Mixed Martial Arts at 28, specifically, I trained in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai. I was the only girl. I trained with a group of guys that I love like brothers. They beat the crap out of me. My toughness was confirmed because they would tell me as much. They would tell anyone who would listen how tough I was. And I was. I am. I always thought I would hold up well under torture. Which sounds like an odd thing to think about, but I did think about it and often.

Then I had a knee injury that required surgery.

I went into the first surgery with the blithe confidence of a moron.

I was a single mom. Two young kids. Right knee = driving knee… meh… that’s ok. I got this. Drug schedule? I got this too. Warnings from the doctor, “be careful not to miss your dose. Be careful not to fall.” Got it doc. I’m good. Of course I was good. I'm a battle hardened warrior. A surgery isn't going to get the best of me.

I woke up from surgery with a nerve block and heavily medicated. My foggy brain cheered, “Suspicions confirmed! You are a bad ass, tough chic. This isn’t bad at all!”

24 hours later my hopes were dashed around my seizing body. That’s right. I was in so much pain I had a seizure. Total fail.  Toughness was thrown out the window. I knew right then the idea of withstanding any type of torture was a foolish thought. I was not the bad ass I had previously assumed that I was.

6 weeks after this first surgery I had to have another one (remember when the doctor said not to fall? I did). Stubbornness and independence is a double edged sword. Not one to be easily deterred, I was back on the mats 8 weeks later. I was good at this fighting thing. Not only that, I loved it. My body craved it. It was the therapy I had been missing out on my whole life. I had this community of people around me that had my back and saw me as a vital part of them. I wasn't going to give that up.
When I was a child and someone would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say I wanted to be Mohammed Ali or Indiana Jones. Not that I wanted to be a boxer or an archeologist. I wanted to be those characters or a variety of others. Due to this break with reality, I was what you could call a late bloomer. By this time, I was in my 30’s and I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had had several jobs of all different varieties in my life and I was pretty damn good at them. I was a jack of all trades and a master of none. I had made it through what I thought was the worst injury imaginable and I was actually a better fighter now. Side note: I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. But that story is still in progress.

I was in a new relationship with the man who is now my husband. This perfect  for me man who is patient and kind and who never saw me as the crazy girl who needed to beat people up. He just saw me. This driven person who found something she loved. He wanted to support me because it made me happy. He always calls me “rugged”. He started calling me that when we first started dating and we were at a store and I carried ALL of the bags while he was putting his credit card back in his wallet. So, it stuck. I’m rugged. I accept that.
I’ve always prescribed to the adage, if a little is good, a lot is better. So, I started adding in CrossFit workouts in addition to the MMA.  Do you see a pattern here? Exercise addict? As an addiction goes, this one isn’t terrible, until it is.
Once again, I became a part of this wonderful community of people. My husband was doing Crossfit too so we got to do this together. I was doing at least 2 workouts a day, 6 days a week. Every part of my life was scheduled. Husband. Kids. Kids Sports and other activities.  Work. Workouts. Competitions. Weight cutting. It was a lot. People would always ask me how I did it. I always answered, “I don’t sleep much.” But I was so desperately tired. That was weakness to me though and I wasn’t weak. I was tough. Resist pain. Resist tired. Resist weakness. I would like to state for the record, that I don’t think this "toughening up" is always a bad thing. I think people in general should be tougher than they are. But there should always be a balance. Listening to your body is an important part of that.

Back to my laundry room epiphany: It was about 2 ½ years ago, that I had to have yet another knee surgery, the 3rd one in 5 years. This one was catastrophic. I chose that word for a reason because it was truly one of the worst things I have ever seen. When your knee cap is in your thigh and you can push it around because every ligament snapped at once, you start to re-evaluate life. It was awful. Physically, yes. But mentally it was a far more debilitating situation. I went through all of the stages of grief more than once. The denial and the anger hung on the longest. My doctor, who is a wonderful man, if not a bit brusque called me an idiot and said I would be lucky if I ever did yoga much less fight when I inquired about the time of recovery. He said it would be months if not a year before I would even be able to walk properly. This pissed me off and I let him know. I said, "well no offense sir, but you don't know me. I'll be back in 6 months." I mean, who did this seasoned orthopedic surgeon who treats professional athletes think he was talking to?? I'm Wonder Woman!
Surgery this time was worse in some ways than the first two, but better in others. It was worse, because it was a terrible injury and I was on my back for months. Fighting the mental battle from your back is torture. But it gives you a lot of fire in your belly to attack the world when you get back up. The depression was overwhelming. However, it was better than the first because I had a husband and a community of friends that came to my rescue. I was so supported. My husband had to carry me to the bathroom. He had to run the house and start a new job and take care of 4 growing teenagers. I was confined to my back. But he did it all. He loved me through the pain, the depression, the overwhelming mental battle I was fighting. The tears that would stream down my face for no reason. He loved me through the change in my appearance, the change in my attitude. He loved me through the anger and the frustration. The times I would be mean because I was in so much pain all I could do was scream, he loved me anyway. My friends came to my rescue in the form of food and wine and visits filled with their sweet babies and lots of laughter and encouragement. Little things like when they saw me without crutches, or when I did an air squat, the applause I received was heart warming. I had never felt so much love in my life. 
Now, if I was a smarter person, it probably wouldn’t take a 3rd knee surgery to get me to the epiphany that I’ve had a lifetime of control issues that I’ve managed by inflicting pain on myself. But like I said earlier, I was so busy observing others, I never took the time to look inward.
I started doing yoga as part of my physical therapy. I’ve always felt “other” in a room full of women. I had babies when I was 19 and 21. So I’m usually not in the same life place as other women my age. Before I married, I was usually working 2-3 jobs to make ends meet. I was alone most of the time. Doing it all myself. Walking into a yoga studio full of women, when I had no idea what I was doing was very intimidating to me. I don’t like not being the best at things.
But because I am tough and I’m not afraid of anything, I did it. It was so different from the types of workouts I was used to, that it took me a while to love it, but I was intrigued. The teachers at Hot Body Yoga in Frisco, Texas were so understanding and welcoming of me. They showed me how to be patient with myself and how to modify the poses to suit my injury.

Of course, I also went to my doctor and told him I was doing yoga just to rub it in his face. He doesn’t usually give me the response I’m going for, but it felt good to know that he knew. He smiled when he thought I wasn’t looking.

I attacked yoga like I attacked fighting and CrossFit. The hardest part for me, was staying in a pose and quieting my mind through it. Understanding that resisting the pain makes the pain worse and you don’t learn anything from it. Relaxing into it and breathing through it changes your perspective. This relaxing into pain takes a certain amount of grit. I thought I had this grit by resisting pain, but it takes more strength and grit to relax into it. I had to learn to be comfortable with discomfort. I had to learn to get myself into a state of calm and the ferocity that I need to take on life would take care of itself. I am nothing if not ferocious, but it was time to start spending that capital on important endeavors and not on everything. 

This was mind blowing to me. I felt like I had this new lease on life, but I also felt so foolish. I’ve been doing this all wrong. Once again, I felt like a late bloomer who takes years longer to figure out what most people learn early on in life. Do I still think there is a place for CrossFit and Martial Arts in my life? Yes, I absolutely do. But I’m learning so much on this journey of self-discovery and maybe it took me longer to get here than most people, but at least I’m on my way now. I’m happier. I feel better. I feel lighter. I see my time on my mat as a joy, not something I have to conjure up all of my discipline to do, but a privilege to have an hour to discover something new about myself. This, in combination with learning to mediate every day has slowly started to help me learn to be more present. Objectively looking at my life as an outsider and allowing myself to see my behaviors as what they are, a coping mechanism, self-preservation born from an immature spirit. I am trying to learn to look at my thoughts and my emotions as things that I can get involved with or not. They are living, breathing organisms that I can choose how to interact with. I’m trying to retrain my mind. I understand that the little girl with the loose tooth was trying to cope with a loss that she couldn’t comprehend and she didn’t know how to process. That little girl is still inside of me. She never really grew up, but she needs this grown-up version to protect her. She needs me to be healthy. She needs me to be strong in ways that don’t always require brute strength, but quietly strong. She needs me to be present for her. She needs me to aware of her, she needs me to be gritty in ways that I didn’t know how to be before. She needs me to be the mother to her that I am to my children. I know that this journey into my own life will be a lifelong one that will evolve and change daily, and I’m strangely comfortable with that.

Peace and love and resting ferocity,

Chace