What I Should Scream

A study has shown that screaming and swearing actually elevates your pain tolerance. This may even explain the strong urge to vocalize hurt; it actually alleviates the pain.

Would it work the same way if I screamed "I miss you" and "I love you" at the top of my lungs? Would this stop hurting if I shouted it?

To say "I miss you" isn't the right term. I've seen you, and it hurts. You look too beautiful. That beauty traverses the senses, prompting a hope for your scent, startling my skin with unfulfilled anticipation. It's not a pleasant thing. It's an always ill-timed reminder of what's missing.

And that's the right term. It's not that I'm missing you. It's that you're missing.

How you crawled under my skin so fast remains a mystery. I shouldn't hurt this bad for you. I've dated girls for much longer and hurt much less. Yet the pain is undeniable, always in the first-person present tense. Somehow there's a hole where you tore away.

It's not that I want you back. My life is a mess, and you don't need that. You're high-stress, and I can't handle that. I'm depressed, and that suffocates you. You're angry, and that scorches me. My obsessive bruises your escapist, your flighty plays catalyst to my insecure. Trust me, the incompatibilities were evident from the beginning. And we wanted different things. It's sad how close the scales were to weighing in on the other side, but reality is what it is.

I keep coming back to a quote from The Mighty Ducks, a movie that transformed my childhood (underdog movies having an obvious kind of appeal). The coach has lived in regret for decades, never able to forget a shot he missed by "a quarter of an inch." Charlie (one of the kids he's coaching) responds, "Yeah, but a quarter inch the other way and you'd have missed completely."

In a game I've been playing obsessively (Mass Effect, which has been my attempt at refuge from the current pain), one potential romantic interest pulls you aside to talk as you approach a final conflict – and almost certain death. To paraphrase, she says, "Whatever happens here, I just wanted to thank you. For everything." This same sentiment appears in the Japanese version of Final Fantasy X, where the English-version final line of "I love you" is replaced with "Thank you."

I'm trying to remain grateful for the opportunities I've had. I just wish that the emotions of romance could be played in reverse. I know, in the long haul, I'll look back and feel this was all worth it. In the midst of the pain, that reality is easy to forget. If I could hurt first, then feel the joy, the pain would at least offer a horizon. But with the pain being at the conclusion, leaving us in a state of loss and past-tense happiness, the only option for that hope resides in starting the cycle over again – dooming ourselves to a repeat of this pain.

Maybe I should try screaming, the next time I find a sound-proof place. Not "I love you," but "Thank you." Not "I miss you," but "You're missing."

Battlefront

I strap the training gloves on, the black vinyl flexing against my knuckles, the double-wrapped binding tight against my wrists. I take my simple stance: legs shoulder width apart, left in front of right, bent at the knees.

Damn you for looking so beautiful tonight.

My opponent for this sparring session? A six-foot “Wavemaster” model, the XXL, that boasts 400 pounds of weight to keep it planted regardless of what you throw at it. Its sleek black skin – the sort of ebony they might have lied about when discussing African warriors back in the imperial age – taunts me.

First punch – “one,” a jab, used to find range to your opponent. You find power at the full extension of your reach because it lets you get the full momentum and waist-swing involved. Follow-through is important, but the punches that really explode happen right at the end of your range. The jab is at a good reach; I hit it, but couldn’t push through too far.

Screw you for being so talented.

Second punch – “two,” a cross, one of the more powerful punches. Since it’s coming from your back arm, you can swing your hips into it. Plus, your back arm is going to be your stronger one. Add this to a step in with your left foot, allowing for even more speed to the attack, and it’s easy to see why this technique is important to master. I hit the bag with force and it falls back momentarily.

Forget this.

Third and fourth punches, both jabs.

Forget all of this.

And a cross. Cross again. Then kick. The kick comes from your hips, too, and will always be done with your back leg. You want your shin bone to make contact with the side of their upper leg. Almost no one stretches that part of their body right but we’re always using it: it’s dense with nerves, and it’s always tight. The sole purpose of this kick is to inflict pain. My legs are stronger than my upper body; the bag tilts on its side then falls back into place with a noisy thud that likely disturbed the downstairs neighbors. It is almost midnight, after all.

God – fucking – damn it.


Jab, jab, cross. Cross, cross, kick. Kick, kick, side elbow. For the side elbow, you bright your fist into your chest to strike your elbow across their face. It requires close range, but you’re working with a lot of bone and you’re aiming for a fragile surface. It’s easy enough to break a nose, or even crack open someone’s forehead. I saw one fight where they had to halt the action just to be sure the elbow-made gash wasn’t bone deep.


God. Fucking. Damn it.


Jab, cross, cross. Jab, cross, side elbow. Cross, cross, kick, cross. Kick, kick – pause. On that last kick I forgot to raise my hands to protect my face. I need to practice that. It’s easy to drop them if you’re not concentrating. I reset my stance.

My breathing is heavy, but that started before I picked up my gloves. That started the moment I was far enough out of eyesight from you that I knew you wouldn’t see me react; call it a panic attack or minor freakout or whatever you want, but I was holding it in that entire time. Thinking of your goddamn shoulders in that dress. Thinking of the brightness of your smile set into those faery cheeks. Thinking of the way you laughed from across the room.

Jab, cross, cross, cross. Jab, cross.

Thinking of your new haircut.

Kick, kick, kick, jab, cross.

Thinking of the way you read your words, the melody of your voice.

Jab, cross, side elbow.

Thinking of the bedding and the headboard and the new bathroom decor and the thousand other things I bought to try and make you happy here. Thinking of the thousand things I was trying to make that you’ll never see. Thinking of the suffocated plans, asphyxiated dreams, that won’t ever be written.

Jab, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross.

Now, with each strike, the bag is dragging back across the room, nudged by my strikes. Through the vinyl, my knuckles scream. The bag’s skin has wrinkled into creases, though who knows how that happened with my simple volley of blows.

Jab, cross, cross, kick, kick, kick, cross, kick, cross, kick, side elbow, jab, cross, cross, down elbow, cross, side elbow, knee, knee, knee, front kick, front kick, kick, kick, kidney shot, kidney shot, jab, cross, cross, jab, cross, kick, kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

The bag is at the edge of the room now, threatening to damage the drywall. I take a few steps back, panting, breathless.

People always ask who’s face it is on the bag. Am I picturing my boss? Am I picturing my teachers? … am I picturing her?

I charge back in, inelegantly, not bothering to protect my face, and hit the bag again. And again. And again. My mind floods with a stream of cusses.

My violence lacks the sort of clarity that pictures a person where I strike. Maybe this bag is my world, the world I want to destroy so badly. Maybe it’s all those hopes and desires that I want to let go of. Maybe it's the way you said "I love you," or that you ever did. Maybe it’s the part of me that demands I suffer for a person I know I can’t have. Maybe it's the overclocked heart in my chest that refuses to get over her.

Or maybe this bag is my broken mirror.

Clearing My Head: Part 2

Apparently the way I vacation now is to have work done on my car, research school options, and go grocery shopping. :)

I won't go too much into the car troubles, except to say that it's being ... mean ... and not always accelerating ... and making funky noises. My car might die in Cali, which is a kind of fun thing. I've been thinking of getting rid of it anyway, and I could get a flight back instead of driving 12 hours on Monday.

I got a rental car while my car's in the shop. And I bought sushi and a bunch of fruit.

I know there will be other sets of emotion to process regarding the end of my most recent relationship, but so far what I've felt more than anything else is an overwhelming amount of gratitude. To have met her. To have had these experiences. To have learned these lessons. To even know there are people like her, with the talent and passion she had.

It's not a "wish I could have her" thing. It's a "the highs were phenomenal, I learned so much, it was the right choice to let it die." It's weird to feel that sense of gratitude when my history tells me what I normally feel is pain and anger. I'm sure those will come too. But right now I'm just so grateful.

Also ... sleepy. Haven't slept in ... so long. Going to bed now.

Clearing My Head: Part 1

So, the Blogger app seems better for writing content here. I guess I'll use that!

On Facebook I mentioned that I'm currently in Las Vegas, clearing my head after -- well, a lot of things, but the final straw was the end of a tumultuous relationship. I'm heading to California to try to get away from my stressors and, in some small degree, myself.

I'm taking a break in the Bellagio. Pandorica ('98 Plymouth Neon) has been behaving splendidly, but the engine's starting to whirr a bit and I want to be sure I don't push her. Plus, I should prbably eat. (That's always one of the hardest things for me after the end of a relationship; I think starvation is a way to seek an emotional reset by tapping into the survival instinct's override capabilities?)

I'll be heading on to Long Beach for the rest of the weekend. I'll try to update here as I go, but no guarantees; I'll be busy, and this tablet has really limited typing / not frustrating Rob capabilities.

2011 - A Year in Review

I'll try to keep this brief.

In 2011, I:

• Moved back down to Utah Valley
• Paid off all my consumer debt
• Met some very cool people
• Attended school for two full-time semesters, completing 24 credit hours with a ~3.8 gpa
• Published in two lit journals
• Wrote a bunch of new material, including creative nonfiction stories
• Worked toward effective medication of ADD, depression, and other medical issues
• Delved into some of my "mystery" medical issues to discover underlying causes and potential solutions
• I created some websites, including my own portfolio space, a resurrected version of Seraph Swords, and several other projects
• I earned 38k as a self-employed writer / SEO consultant

It was a strong year. I made some sacrifices and some gains. I feel that 2012 will be better.