The Wrestler

“My only faith’s in the broken bones and bruises I display.” Bruce Springsteen “The Wrestler”

I just had one of those moments where there was coincidence or whatever you call it when life wants to teach you something. I was trying to find a quote in a book that I’m slowly reading and as I was doing it the same idea came across in the song above that Spotify chose to play for me.

And if I look deeper at both sources, it’s just weird. A random friend who I really don’t ever talk to had “The Wrestler” in her Spotify playlist. I’d never heard it, so I added it to my music. My ex sister in law gave me the book years ago. I never even gave it much thought, but looked down a few months ago and there it was on top of a pile of rubble in my room.

Why did I choose now to start reading that book? And why did that song get across the same idea that I’m currently working through? The not random. The non coincidences. I love stuff like that.

I was talking to a dear friend last night. We were discussing how fucked up our friendship was when we first met, but that we both saw what we needed to see at the time. We were blind to how fucked up we both were, but both saw greatness in the other even though we couldn’t see it in ourselves. We’re both doing great now and it’s so cool to look back and see how far we’ve both come and that we really needed for our paths to cross to get to this point.

And, one of the things she did for me was to make me realize that it was okay to be fucked up. The only thing not okay about being fucked up is pretending you’re fine. I put my broken bones and bruises on display with her. And she did the same with me. It was nice to have those I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up moments.

It’s interesting how that’s evolved for me. Sharing my real shit with her lead me to crave that in relationships. I love story time and talking through life. And writing about it. And listening to other people’s stories. It’s so therapeutic for me.

And really, it’s become my art…writing about my deepest darkest shit. It’s so freeing. Especially coming from such a conservative Christian background where my shit needed to be either avoided or hidden. To be able to name my shit and call it what it is…man it brings me so much life. I don’t have to pretend or try to fit into a box. I can just say I’m damaged. And the crazy thing is I’m getting a lot more “Amens” these days from other damaged people than I ever got trying to spout off Christian wisdom.

My only faith’s in the broken bones and bruises I display. I love that. The quote I was looking for in the book says it like this, “Art opens the closets, airs out the cellars and attics. It brings healing. But before a wound can heal it must be seen, and this act of exposing the wound to air and light, the artist’s act, is often reacted to with shaming.”

That’s how I used to feel. Ashamed of the truth. Ashamed to be real. But, with the real comes healing. I’m no good to anyone if I hide my wounds. It hurts me and the people I care about if I try to hide my pain. And really who do I think I’m fooling when I walk around, obviously damaged, limping, bloodied, but insisting I’m fine?

It’s okay that my past is a mess. It’s okay to seek help. When my story is in the light there’s a chance for me to get over the dark parts. To heal. To move the fuck on and live some life.

Yesterday was a battle for me. I had to think through and work through some family stuff that was challenging. I caught myself doubting myself. Questioning myself. Feeling unsure. Talking out loud to myself. But, I wrote and I wrote and I got back on top of it. I’m so lucky to have writing...to have a voice and be able to air my shit out and get myself to healthier places.

I hung out with my therapist yesterday and she had the nerve to tell me that she marvels at how I came into her life. What the fuck man? How did I become this guy who she adores? This guy who she chooses to see voluntarily without charging me? It was four years ago this month that I got kicked out of the house. That was a dark time. But, therapy and writing have gotten me through.

They’ve helped me dig down to what’s really going on. Life is always passing out free lessons if we pay attention. And yesterday my six year old son taught me a lesson. After school he became irate that I wouldn’t take him to Walmart to buy a KU football jersey. It would have been easy to give in to his tears, but I held my ground.

After many tears and much screaming and yelling we got to the heart of the matter. It had been jammies day at school and he decided not to wear his jammies, but felt like an outsider when most of the other kids wore theirs. So, the thought of not fitting in again the following day overwhelmed him. His friend Brad was going to wear a KU football jersey, so he set his mind on getting one of his own. The poor kid just wanted to fit in. He wanted to not feel awkward. When we figured it out and he felt like I understood him, he was fine.

And that’s a great example of why I still struggle to deal with anger and figure my feelings out. I didn’t have parents walking me through my shit. It wasn’t safe to cry or be angry. But, lucky for me I have a therapist who helps me get through my shit. And the non coincidence that happened with her yesterday was her giving me a step by step way to deal with my boy’s rage, just hours before he went into his fit.

I can only shake my head at my little life these days. It’s pretty fucking great. I used to know it all or think I needed to pretend to. Now, I’m content to just put my brokenness on display and see who’s willing to help put MatthewBlakeAtkinson back together again.