Purgatory

I didn't think it'd be easy. I didn't think it would be this hard. In my head, I guess I just thought it would feel like every other transitional period I've gone through. But it doesn't.

Sometimes, just for a minute, I find peace. Then, reality and doubt collide, and I'm left to pick up the pieces and try to hold it together, swimming through this limbo summer the best I can. I feel like a part of me, the strongest part, is missing. Just, gone. Feel free to reference a Thanos snap if you want.

It's been almost 4 months since I found out I was losing my teaching job. A lot of things have happened, including witnessing some incredible people overcoming an impossible situation. I was able to do my part, to finish my own story in those halls and classrooms. It was an amazing sacrifice, an unrivaled experience, and it's over. I no longer am an instructor at my alma mater.

And it hurts.

Truth be told, a lot of things are better since the end of that chapter. I get to see my kids every day, get to tuck them in bed almost every night, and I get to choose when I work. I have more time for my clients, and I have been filling my time with as many clients as I can. I get to watch my daughter play her soccer games (which is hysterical), go on walks with my family, go to pretty much any concert I want to without conflict, and am dangerously close to having a routine.

Sounds pretty great, right? For the most part, it is pretty awesome. My kids love it, my wife loves it, and I...well, love most of it.

And yet, this gaping hole in my heart seems to drain, or at least siphon the joy that I feel. I'm not one to feel satisfied normally, so it's not a surprise that I don't feel content. But I do feel like I should be feeling some sense of peace, some sense of belonging with what I'm doing. My passion seems to be ebbing out, dulling the joy that I always thought I would feel doing all of these things.

This is all starting to sound like a setup for a Dashboard Confessional record.

Let me clarify.

I don't want to go back to working weird hours, being away from my family, having no time for anything else. What I am really trying to get around to saying is that I miss the strength I got from those things. When I was in the classroom, I knew exactly what needed to be done, what I wanted to do, what I needed to do, and I could look in the mirror and know who I was. I gained a lot of strength knowing my mission, knowing that I could complete it, and knowing that I could repeat it.

And now, a big part of that strength has been removed. The mission, the purpose; it feels different. It feels like everything I am doing is for survival, and not for the bigger picture.

It's like I am reading the Lord of the Rings, but starting with Return of the King instead of Fellowship of the Ring. The gist is there, and you kind of get what's going on, but trying to fill in the holes is difficult and tenuous at best. I know what I should feel, what I should see, but it's hard to make sense of it. I'm also no Frodo.

When I'm not working on a client or spending time with my family, it's in the quiet moments that the emptiness creeps in. Driving home from work. Quietly laying in bed. Even on a family camping trip, the free time became my own prison, my own personal purgatory. In large part, I find myself horribly distracted by this chasm I keep falling in to. This distraction creates a HUGE wave of apathy or papercuts of sorrow.

It's these in-betweens that are killing me. It's in the in-betweens I see my school family all moving on and excelling in new ways in new places (I am so proud of all of you), and yet I am still grieving, still suffering. Trying to decide who I want to be or who I should be in those moments stings with every second that slips by.

I feel like I am caught in a daily loop, going through the same cycle day to day. I am who I am at home; I am who I am at work. But who is in-between? This cycle is like tripping on the same step day after day, or slipping on the same patch of ice over and over again.

The issue here, like I said, isn't truly about teaching. If that was it, I would just find somewhere else to teach.

As I said, it's not about teaching. That's just the proverbial name on the grave. For me, I think, my problem stems from a sense of belonging, from a sense of purpose. Identity.

You know me. Some of you better than others, but still. We all know I'm not exactly an orthodox person. I have spent the majority of my life looking for a place to call my own, a place that I fit, somewhere I belong. The school was the first place that felt like it could be that place.

In a lot of ways, I found myself during my years there. I didn't have to be anything other than me to have a place there. Maybe it was my coworkers, my friends, my students...I don't know. But I belonged there.

So if I truly did find myself there, why would my sense of belonging disappear without it? Wouldn't it become a part of me? That I belong to myself?

From a rational place, this would be the part where I say that I belong where I am: as a father, as a husband, as a bodyworker. And I do. I love being a dad, and I love the work that I do. But outside of those occupied moments, the in-betweens take their toll.

I know who I am as a father, as the head of my little family.
I know who I am when I am working on my clients.
I can see the overall composition of what this puzzle creates, but it's like I am missing a single piece.

This is the part where some people start thinking "Wow, mental health much?" To which I say, always, and also, dead wrong.

My mind has its issues, but it's my soul looking for comfort right now. There aren't pills you can take to give you a sense of direction or belonging. There isn't really a way to sit on a couch and talk to someone enough to fill in what feels like anti-matter in your sense of identity.

What I am looking for is still the same thing that I've always looked for; my own place in this world. Not as a father, not as a bodyworker, or a musician, an author, or anything else that I do. It's about who I am as a human being.

I belong to my family.
I belong in my field.
I belong in my passions.
Why don't I feel like I belong to myself?

This all feels very trivial to me. I am irritated with myself as I read over these words because I know how they sound. "What the hell does it matter who you are on your drive home from work? Aren't you the same all the time?"

And that, my friends, is the point. Without that sense of identity in the in-between moments, I don't feel complete in all of the identity-solid ones. These holes reduce the stability of the other moments, preventing the feeling of being whole.

I get it. Everyone goes through times of questioning who they are and who they want to be. I'm not vain enough to think that this hard time makes me different than anyone else. But I don't live anyone else's life. I live mine. And right now, I am trying to live it the best way that I can. My life belongs to me, but I am struggling because I don't feel like I belong to my life.

This summer has been truly difficult. I will find my way through the dark days, as I have done my whole life. I will find my way out of Purgatory and back to the land of the living. I will do what I do best; put my head down and go to work. That's the easy part. I will either find the missing piece or carve a new one. These things take time. But today, I will ask questions that may not have answers.

Thank you so much to everyone who has reached out to me over the last few months, shared their love, or just taken the time to check up on me. I have amazing friends. You all mean the world to me. I am so lucky to have you in my life.


Sb.

Broken Arrow

Warning: This is gonna be a heavy one, folks. This is the way a writer processes...well, everything.

There aren't many things on my mind these days. A lot of the day to day feels trivial and unimportant. As I scroll mindlessly through my social media feeds, most of it just glosses past my inner sight and I can't even remember what it is that I've been reading. As the rains have fallen, it feels as if my soul has gone to a screensaver, a perpetual motion machine that I can't seem to stop watching.

This isn't all that uncommon for me. Bipolar/depression//insomnia make ugly bedfellows, but that is something I have dealt with my whole life. What is different is the feeling that fills in the real moments, the ones when the screensaver is turned off.

As some of you know, I'm losing my teaching career in June. I use the word losing because I am not leaving the school intentionally; it was announced that our company was purchased and that all the western schools would be shutting down. My administrators and coworkers (my 2nd family) will all be losing our livelihoods when summer hits. To boot, some of my beloved students will have their educations left incomplete with few options to finish other than transferring. Our staff and students are doing what we can, but it's a raw deal to say the least for all of us involved.

Processing the thought of not teaching anymore has been devastating. I'm still not there. We are talking about the last twelve years of my life learning, practicing, developing, mastering, and falling in love with what I went to school to do. I have poured my life into those walls, spilling literal drops of my own blood (due to an unfortunate whiteboard mishap), crying more tears over successes and failures, over personal trauma and professional anxieties, and I have left everything I have in those classrooms.

I have seen hundreds of students during my time as a Teaching Assistant and as an Instructor. I have had sleepless nights and restless days. I have met some of the most amazing people, some of which have become my dearest friends.

I have taught consecutive days of 13+ hours and worked an insane schedule. I have learned techniques and modalities that may have been teaching a goldfish to climb a damn tree and still found a way to enjoy it. I have studied my ass off to make sure I knew how to answer the student in the back with the piercing questions that I hadn't thought until the query was posited. I have missed reunions, weddings, funerals, birthdays, bedtimes, and all of the other cliches.

And I have LOVED it. And in two months, it will all be ashes, a memory. In a few years, few will remember what happened in those halls. For someone who cherishes legacy the way that I do, it's a bitter pill to swallow.

I always thought when I left the school, it would be on my terms. It would be because I knew that my work was done, that I was satisfied. I have given

My heart is broken. I don't know how else to put it. I have cried more in the last week than I have in the last decade combined. I have seen the light, the fire in my students eyes extinguish, and I know that they see it in mine. Grief and despair are ripping my soul into pieces, and I feel like I am burying myself alive.

And still it's somehow worse, seeing what it is doing to my second family; the faculty and my students.

This is the part where many say "When one door closes, another opens" and "Maybe this is to set you up for something better." Great sentiments, but they don't float right now. I appreciate the intent. However, the thought that keeps coming back to me is that no opportunity will truly fill the void that will be left. It feels like a book that is ending without the last few chapters.

I get it. There are other schools and other places I can teach or work, and I'm well aware of all of that. I'm a talented dude and I know how to put my head down and grind.

The thing is, I'm not really worried about the financial/employment side of things. I'm not stressed about picking up more clients and filling in the holes with writing/music/continuing education/whatever. That was all part of the eventual plan anyway.

It's hard to truly put into characters how I feel about all of this. I'll say it this way: I am good at a lot of things in my life. There are very few that I can say I am great at. I am a great teacher. I love teaching. But the thing I love the most was that I was teaching the same thing that changed me as a person and changed my life into something I am proud of.

I teach people more than just bodywork. I teach them to embrace their passion, to chase the things that set them on fire, and to never take no for an answer. I teach them to prove everybody wrong who doubts them, and to love what they do and why they do it. I teach them the same things that my mentors taught me, with a little style, sarcasm, and a badass hairstyle that has changed more times over the last 12 years that I've lost count. I try to show them that there is a place in this world for everyone if you are bold enough to fight for it.

So, as these tears run down my face, I leave this promise: I am going to give everything I have left to the next 2 months. I will pour all of my anger, my grief, and my passion for what I do into every class until Judgment Day. I will do my best to make my mentors proud, and to give my students the best of what I can do. To make sure that what I have sacrificed so much for over the last decade meant something.

I'm going to be ok. I know that. But it's like the ultimate breakup. Like a death in the family, even. I will move on to something new and do what I have to do. But tonight, I mourn. The tunnel is dark, but I will find my way out. I don't need a light at the end; my fire will burn bright enough.

I would be remiss to leave this without a little gratitude. Thank you to my family and friends who reached out, for your kind and supportive words. They mean the world, even if you spoke/texted them without a response. I will find my way through; thank you for your support. There isn't much anyone can do, save referring a client or two or coming to get a session or even a word or two of encouragement now and then. Any help is appreciated, but we will find our way through.

My wife Keisha has been incredible. I think she is the only one who knows just how much of myself I give to my work. Thanks to my sweet daughter, who does everything a four year old can (including bringing me her teddy bear and blanket) to remove the sting of her daddy's pain. Thanks to my little boy, who is the sweetest and naughtiest little destroyer I've ever seen, but always brings a smile to my face with those big brown eyes and crooked smile (just like mine).

Thank you to everyone who has touched my life over the last 12 years. Alisha Sabin, Nicolle Buchanan, Char (K) Olenik, Jake Jarman, Devin Mitchell, Katy Spencer, Eric Jemison, Heidi Pepinos, Piikea McVey, Jeannette Green, Ronda Tracy, Kristie Kearl, Tanika and Caleb Larsen, Dexter Nye, Cori Halterman, Jessie Tucker, Heather Johnson, Meggie Moe; every single one of you mean the absolute world to me. It was an honor to learn from and work with you.

Jennifer Jones, Melanie Tomco, Cherie Julander, Taylor Boone, Gio Rodriguez, Julianna Boulter, Catherine Bennett, Amber Jensen, Scott Davis, Taylor Lamont, MaKenna Turner, Nicole Wilkey, Crystal Pehrson,  Mckenzie Robinson, Don Liufau, Andrea Alleman, Clairise Casper, Erin Price, Cassie Webb, Nicole Bell, Emma Raynor, Nana Silva,  Emily Powell, Alysia Byington, and anyone I missed (I am so sorry if I did), I love all of you so much. Thank you for being a part of this incredible journey.

Those names are forever engraved on my soul. I can't even begin to list names of my students and colleagues, but I love all of you so much. Here's to us. I will make you proud, one way or another.

I usually end my graduation speeches with a quote from my favorite book series by Terry Goodkind: "Your life is yours, and yours alone. Rise up and live it."

Now it's my turn.