New years resolutions are so fucking lame. Even the “setting intentions” of it all is off-putting as hell. Is that cynical? Maybe. Simply put, it feels cheap to use an arbitrary marker — resetting the Gregorian calendar — as the genesis for making substantive life changes.
That being said…
One of modern times’ great thinkers — Jeffrey Lynn Goldblum — did say that “life, uh…finds a way.”
Life wasted no time needling in a bit of change to kick off January 2023.
Now dear reader, unbeknownst to you there’s a robust & colorful history of rash decision making afoot — like well over three decades worth. Imagine being a college freshman, out on your own for the first time. Alone in your dorm room on one of those early Friday nights before you made friends, you discover the “Casual Encounters” page on craigslist (RIP). You snap a shirtless pic with the webcam on your refurbished Dell Latitude workbook, and post an ad titled “Hot Chocolate looking for Love.” Your naïveté on full display — how could you know that “M4M” stands for “men seeking men.” Random numbers texting. An abundance of pixelated phalli filling up your Motorola RAZR — what’s going on? Why is this happening? Take that level of casual relationship, and apply it to forethought. “Careful” and “consideration” haven’t been loyal repeat customers in the ol’ prefrontal cortex. Whatever. We still here, and haven’t added to — or subtracted from — the population. It’s all good, baby.
Viewed through the shattered lens of myopia (or a committed hedonist), this consistent employment of the Nike mindset to “just do it” could almost be commendable. Just go for it. Live in the moment.
Or maybe late-stage capitalism has duped another sucker into thinking it’s all gonna go on forever — but let’s not digress.
…
Doltish eyes squint open with 2022’s final binge hanging over. Blockish skull’s inner surface pulsing like a single, giant nerve being macerated by a farm animal. Voracious inner demons feasting on the tattered remnants of self-worth. Yet in those dark throes of praying for death was a brief spark of curiosity.
Could the pain of a tattoo needle scream louder than this hangover?
An incandescent North Star of an idea that lit a way forward into the freshly minted annum — to the door of a random tattoo shop in Echo Park. No call. No appointment. Just do it.
…
The first of many message posts to Dr. Sheila Kamen via a secured client portal was sent March 27, 2019:
“I don’t know what I want from my life. I don’t know what I want from myself. And I don’t trust that I can identify what those wants would look like…
…I feel very lost.”
Life was hard, then. A promising military career derailed. A loving wife dishonored.
A suicide attempt. Disrupted.
Even the unsensational bread & butter of everyday felt like an Everest to climb — with the reward being a slap on the ass from Sisyphus at the top.
Life felt broken, and there was no simple fix-it solution.
But life finds a way.
Therapy can be a magical experience. The power of self-discovery can be an awesome force of progress. And it can also be neither of those — sometimes you just need to hear someone tell you to chill the fuck out. In one of those early sessions, Sheila interrupted some long-winded, self-pitying rant about not knowing how to “fix” things. The knowing therapist nods ceased, all pencil scribbles stopped, legs unfolded then refolded, and she issued a very matter-of-fact:
“Forgive yourself — you don’t need to figure out how to fix jack-shit, you just need to be willing to try.”
…
Spoiler alert: tattoos are not an effective hangover cure. But as they say, we don’t know what we don’t know. It’s also said that pain is weakness leaving the body. That’s some bullshit too. A couple hours of excruciating needling to the ribs was, just that. Excruciating.
Even still, highly recommend.
The shop was supposed to be closed for New Year’s Day. No one was expecting a hungover walk-in off the street — in fact, the artist was still a little sauced from the Auld Lang Syne festivities the night before. Kindred spirit.
Forming coherent sentences about the piece in question was a challenge.
How would one say, “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you,” but in a cool way about your therapist?
Therapeutic relationships are designed to end. You walk in with a problem. This person accepts the challenge to help solve it. The work gets done (or it doesn’t). Progress gets made (or not). You thank them, and go about your merry way.
But what happens when you start to love the work? When the best part of every week is that hour conversation? When you learn how to “let your best be what leads you,” or at least how to be vulnerable enough to try.
What happens when you’re seen and heard by this person — without judgment, without agenda — and they create the space to open up & heal? Who wants to walk away from that? Four years with Sheils had ended, and memorializing the ephemeral relationship with permanent ink would be a visual reminder to honor the vows taken to excellence, joy, & peace.
“I want you to make a vow with excellence. I want you to take a vow of joy. I want you to take a vow of peace. I want you to become willing to see yourself the way God sees you, & to let go of the vows you have taken throughout the course of your life from the lesser versions of yourself.” ~Dr. Sheila Kamen
…
Was it Kierkegaard? Or could it have been Heidegger? Some egghead philosopher said people decide the nature of their world at a very young age. According to Sheils, our past distorts and colors how we perceive the world. Children create a way of behaving that will lead to “success,” however they choose to define it. You’re praised for being a strong little kid, so you invest in strength. Or you become the smart girl. Or the funny boy. Or the pretty girl. And this strategy works until sometime around your Dirty Thirtieth.
“If you’re ready to be grown up, you have to be willing to lose” ~ Sheils
When you grow up you recognize your chosen way of winning has become a trap. And a trap with diminishing returns. You’re a clown no one will take seriously. Or you’re a beauty queen watching her looks fading. You’re forced to realize your identity was a choice, and then to choose another. But you know this strategy will never have the same passion as the one you’d chosen in childhood. Now you’re especially aware that it’s a choice. And you know it, too, will likely fade. You might lose.
The unsung beauty in living with a willingness to lose is tolerating the discomfort necessary for growth. Confronting it. Embracing it. Your chest up and eyes forward — because life finds a way to come at you fast. And with it? “Another Fucking Growth Opportunity.”
…
You know that song “Wish I Knew You” by The Revivalists? (Yes, that certified BANGER)
It’s not often the client/clinician Venn diagram overlaps over grooves with such immaculate vibes and catchy hooks. Yet life found its way in connecting Sheila & I via song pop song. Back at the tattoo shop, the devastating combination of hangover mental fugue, and “Nike mindset” left little room for discretion toward a tattoo tribute. The best option in the moment (read: first thing that came to mind) was the chorus of this song.
Yes, inked across my ribs like a boho-beautiful IG influencer.
No, it certainly does not match the macabre undercurrents of Santa Muerte and the Cross of Saint Peter depicted by other artists on my body.
Yes, it’s a superlative example of rash decisions done right. Every glance in the mirror is a reminder to move toward, and embrace my vision of possibility.
“Just move toward your vision — you don’t need a cosmic 2×4 to smack you with inspiration.” ~ Sheils
…
Not everyday is good — some are beyond awful. But that was never the point.
Almost one year removed from weekly appointments with Sheils, the lessons are still there. The work continues. Regression happens. Emotional pain still hurts — as it should — but pain isn’t the captain of the ship anymore. Express what hurts, acknowledge it, and choose the thing that hurts less. It’s not easy to end the love affair with pain and leave it behind. But it is rewarding.
Thank you Sheils, for showing up to laugh. To cry. To put together this glorious puzzle of my life.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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