“Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.”
Hermann Hesse
Seamus didn’t want to be a boxer. But he was pushed into the sport at age ten by his father, who was also a fighter. Seamus figured: “If I had to box, I might as well become good at it – at least good enough to not get hurt too badly.” The strategy worked. By age 27, he had a record of 19-1, with 14 wins by knockout. And when a much-hyped bout between Holyfield and Mike Tyson was suddenly scuttled, Seamus, like a real life Rocky, was offered the chance of a lifetime.
It was June 1, 1990, when Seamus squared off against Holyfield. The event was held in Atlantic City. There was a big crowd, including many fans from Ireland, the birthplace of his mother and father, and where he had spent many years as a youth. Ranked 9th in the world, Seamus was a clear underdog. But he gave it his all for four rounds, losing on a controversial technical stoppage (video replay shows Seamus was on his feet before the count of eight, and thus the referee should not have ended the fight).
No pun intended, it was a tough blow to Seamus. He had sacrificed much to get into the best shape possible for Holyfield, including abstaining from alcohol, which had become by that time a way for him to cope with shyness and low self-esteem. But despite his disappointment, he pulled himself together to prepare for his next fight. Unfortunately, his handlers decided it best for him to engage in an extremely long and grueling training schedule. Not having the confidence to speak up against the regimen, even though he sensed it was not the right approach, he entered the ring with sore and tired muscles. As a result, he suffered another defeat, and worse, a terrible physical beating. To box again meant risking permanent injury. Thus, Seamus retired.
While change is never easy, letting go can be even harder. For Seamus, whose self-worth and livelihood connected to boxing, leaving the sport behind in such an abrupt fashion was disastrous to his mental health. Akin to a careening train slamming into a brick wall, his past met his present with a thunderous crash. He emerged from the wreckage scared, confused, and traumatized. Years later, he would attach a diagnosis to his emotional state – Professional Athlete Syndrome (PAS).
While the most common symptoms of PAS (depression, anxiety and loss of identity ) can affect people from all walks of life when they leave a long-held profession, they are most prevalent in high-profile athletes. According to an article put out by Kindbridge Behavioral Health: “There are few careers comparable to those pertaining to elite athletics. It can be an exciting and rewarding vocation, but the expression ‘The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long’ aptly describes how it ends for many involved. Some are able to transition into life’s second act without a hitch, but others struggle with the departure from competition, fandom, and other activities that kept dopamine firing in a rapid succession. Compromised mental health ensues for a significant number of the latter, with research finding that depression rates in former athletes are as high as 39%. More concerning, is that related suicide rates are 2–4 times higher for former male athletes than the general male population.”
Seamus experienced all of this and more once his career ended. “My purpose was gone, and I wanted to be gone,” he said. “I sat up in the bed for days after that last bout, thinking: ‘If I don’t have to fight anymore, I don’t have to quit drinking anymore. I can drink all the time.’ But I discovered that alcohol no longer anesthetized my fears; I’d lost my solution. Then I really wanted to end my life. I drank more and faster until someone gave me a drug. I’d never tried drugs before. I think I got hooked the first time I did it.”
The next few years for Seamus were defined by more downs than ups. He was in and out of rehab, squandered away his money, couldn’t hold a job, lost relationships, and was suicidal. But the fighter’s spirit remained, a survivor’s spark keeping him off the proverbial “mat” for good. Perhaps, the resolve to hold on came from his mother, now deceased (his father is still alive at age 90), a woman he credits with being strong and ultra-loving. But to become sober, and to keep sober, he attributes to the 12 steps. He shared this seminal moment when they became a priority in his life:
“Twenty-nine years ago, a person sat with me in a restaurant and with pen and paper showed me how to do the 12 steps. Since then, I’ve done the steps every day. It starts each morning. The first thing I do is check in with my self. If I don’t feel well, it usually means I’m holding on to resentment – the idea I’ve been mistreated, wronged or disrespected in some way. I then open a notebook and do my best to describe the resentment in writing. Next, I work to identify what is fueling the feelings – my fears, which are always the root of resentment. Once I have uncovered the underlying fears, I am able to let them go, and with it the resentment, all the anger, upset and disappointment that comes with it. I call it leaving the ‘Rage on the Page’. It’s a very relaxing and releasing experience. When I write my mind slows, I become more focused, and I’m able to bring up from my subconscious, and remove, self-destructive thoughts.”
Thanks to this practice, Seamus has not only maintained his sobriety for 29 years, but in doing so has become a role model, and a stalwart supporter, to others battling alcoholism. He is now a person defined by creative action and positive purpose, someone who has acted on stage and in films, who has built a successful business, who has become a loving father, and a cherished friend to many.
Jason Kurtz, a leading psychoanalyst in New York City, and author of the memoir Follow The Joy, also believes writing can be an effective way for people to uncover painful emotions that might, for example, serve as the source of their substance abuse. He states: “We cannot change reality if we are not willing or able to face it. Alcohol and drugs suppress our feelings, making it harder to discern what is truly bothering us, while writing brings those feelings to the surface, where they can be faced. Not only does facing our fears make them less scary, and less painful, but only then will we begin to truly understand what we can do to make things better.”
Writing this story about Seamus has made me more curious about my own story; specifically, the stories I write. Perhaps, one of the reasons I take up fiction is because it allows me to face my fears and accompanying resentments, to bring them up and out through my characters and plots, so I can let them go. It is a profound thing for me to consider. And perhaps I need more time to come to a definitive conclusion. There’s only one way to know for sure: keep writing.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
