Author: musical

Old school tune by 50 Cent from when he was coming up,
Supposedly got him shot, he sure was heavy with the name-drops,
Still, the beat is tight, lyrics paint a picture of the hood,
Told through the eyes of a small-time dealer made good,
Listened to this on high rotation the day I fulfilled a deal with pops,
Conjured up when my trip to hell and back had just begun.

1/12/2019

Warning: This post contains movie spoilers

When the first of the two Creed films was released back in 2015 there were mixed feelings from fans of the Rocky series as it was marketed as a spin-off film, focusing on the trials and tribulations of the long-lost biological son of Rocky Balboa’s late, great rival-turned-best friend, Apollo Creed. The plot itself was intriguing, in which Adonis Creed (with a father whose name was Apollo Creed you knew that the kid would have a name that sounded mythical) seeks out Rocky Balboa to help turn him into a boxing champion. As interesting as this film sounded there remained an air of cynicism regarding how well such a storyline would manifest itself on film without spoiling the Rocky legacy. As a fan of the Rocky films my expectations were huge and I hoped that this film wouldn’t be a train wreck.
As we now know it turned out to be a pretty good film and Michael B Jordan and Sylvester Stallone were praised for their performances as Adonis Creed and Rocky Balboa, respectively, and three years later whispers of a sequel began to circulate, culminating in a teaser trailer making the rounds on social media in late June of 2018. It was a little over two minutes long but I watched it and instantly couldn’t wait to see the rest of the movie.

Whoah! This is gonna be a good one!

The film’s release date was tentatively scheduled for December of 2018 but in my mind, the countdown had begun. Again, the film’s plot was promising, in which Adonis Creed must defend his heavyweight title against Viktor Drago, the son of the man that had killed his father in the boxing ring in Rocky 4, Ivan Drago. Yes, it was going to be a deeply personal rivalry and if that teaser trailer was anything to go by, this film appeared to be a much darker story than its predecessor.

Not going to lie, though, while I was excited to see this film a part of me, once again, felt a tad cynical. While it would finally bring closure to the still-raw rivalry between Ivan Drago and Rocky Balboa and also give Adonis Creed a chance to get even on his father’s behalf while carving out his own legacy, in my mind there was also the potential for this to head into cheesy and clichéd territory. Lord knows some of the Rocky sequels, while still worthwhile viewing, were let-downs compared to the original film that not only spawned a franchise and an iconic cinematic hero, but also ended up a success story during the 1977 Academy Awards.  And I sure as hell was hoping that the film wouldn’t include a rematch between the old versions of Rocky and Ivan. Hey, an elderly Rocky returned to the ring in Rocky Balboa for a crack at the heavyweight champion and Sylvester Stallone and Dolph Lundgren both are still in great shape despite their ages so it was a possibility. Shoot, as I write this blog Stallone is on the cusp of returning to the big screen as an elderly John Rambo preparing to once again go to war. But thank the good Lord that such a rematch wasn’t included.

I had my blood transfusion not long after the release of that teaser trailer and on that night, as my father and I sat in the hospital room waiting for that one pint of blood to make its way into my system (it still amazes me how that one little pint took four hours) I told my father about the film and that I wanted to watch it with him once I had recovered. He agreed and we fist bumped on that deal.
“Whatever it is inside of me, let’s beat it. Then we can watch Creed 2,” I told him.
Dad grinned. “Sounds like a plan, let’s do it.”

Fast-forward to the first day of December and the moment had arrived. While Mom was scheduled to catch up with some old work buddies Dad and I headed to the movies. There was already a healthy number of spectators by the time my father and I took our seats in the middle aisle of a rather spacious theatre, mostly young couples, a few fathers and their sons and of course, groups of young guys that were no strangers to the gym themselves. The theatre wasn’t exactly packed to the rafters but the turn-out was decent.
As for me, I was totally hyped as I had waited six months and gone to hell and back for this. After a ten-minute wait the theatre darkened, the screened broadened and the commercials and previews began to roll out.

It’s show time!

Over the next hour and fifty minutes I sat on my seat, transfixed at what was playing out on the screen before me, most notably the fight scenes which, in my personal opinion, were the most intense in all of the previous Rocky films and certainly more so than in the first Creed film. While the fight scenes from the firstfilmwas geared more towards the technical side of the sport, Creed 2’s fight scenes showed the sweet science at its most brutal. Adonis Creed and Viktor Drago would engage in two vicious fights in this film and the script called for the first fight to be a near-disaster for Adonis as he takes a sickening beating from his much bigger and stronger challenger in three one-sided rounds that culminates in him being knocked unconscious by a cheap shot landed by Viktor while he was already on the canvas, therefore allowing him to keep his title via disqualification but also sending him to the hospital with horrible injuries. The second fight was a more balanced back and forth war in which both fighters took turns punishing one another until Adonis finds another gear to eventually overcome Viktor. Every punch landed by both men in both fights, made doubly persuasive by the sound system in the theatre, had the audience cringing in their seats.

Damn, even jabs sound like shotgun blasts! Compliments to the fight choreographers and sound effects folks.

I think the fight scenes in this film had the potential to make any aspiring fighter sit down and reconsider their chosen paths.

Fight scenes aside I was also impressed with the character of Viktor Drago and the performance from the man-mountain that portrayed him, an amateur boxer and fitness model named Florian Munteanu. Looking back on the previous Rocky films, every opponent that Rocky – and Adonis – faced in the ring were charming and charismatic (or in the case of Rocky 4’s Ivan Drago, straight-up intimidating) but also unlikeable enough to compel the audience to root for the heroes while hoping that the villain would be sensationally humiliated, win or lose, in the obligatory climactic fight scene towards the end of the films.
Not so Viktor Drago. In fact, if you read the comments under any YouTube video related to him or Florian Munteanu you’ll find that the character has many supporters, with many going so far as to say that they found themselves rooting for him in the end, which surely has to be a first for any antagonist from the Rocky franchise. You won’t find many stating that they were glad he ultimately had his ass handed to him by Adonis.

Maybe it’s because he is the son of arguably the most lethal antagonist from the Rocky series but the dude was written to be a fearsome brute like daddy dearest and also as a sympathetic figure. He has inherited his father’s strong, silent approach and does his best talking through his fists but also through his eyes, facial expressions and body language. His eyes widen with terror and shame whenever his father berates him, they furrow with rage and determination during fight scenes and every punch he throws during fights and in training are punctuated by loud grunts and growls, as though his punches are delivered with every ounce of his strength and the anger and trauma within him behind them. He also wears a look of contempt on his face later during the film when he is addressed to by some Russian aristocrats that had jumped onto the bandwagon once his career took off (the same types of people that he believes betrayed his father, hence his anger) and he recoils in sheer horror and disgust in the same scene when he is reunited with the mother that abandoned him and his father many years prior, after which his stoic façade finally breaks and he expresses his true feelings out loud during a heated discussion with his father in the very next scene about the nature of fickle, disloyal fans and runaway family members.
For someone making his film debut, Munteanu did a great job communicating with a minimal use of words although as a real life fighter he wouldn’t have needed much help with the fight scenes and was likely told to just be himself in that ring.

Man, I feel sorry for anyone that has to face this monster in the ring for real.

Unlike previous Rocky villains Viktor does not fight for championship belts, fame and fortune. Rather, he fights for the one thing that has sustained him throughout his life – the desire to one day feel his father’s love and respect. You see, following the events of Rocky 4 Ivan Drago was branded a national disgrace in his native Russia after losing to Rocky Balboa and was subsequently banished from his country. At the beginning of Creed 2 Ivan is a bitter old ex-fighter living in a run-down apartment in a rough section of Kiev in Ukraine with Viktor, whom he has raised entirely on his own following a divorce from his wife, who the audience later learns has remarried and lives a life of luxury in Moscow.
Ivan, still seething with rage after all these years at the way his life had turned out, is left to raise his son the only way he knew how – to groom him to be every bit the brutal wrecking machine that he was during his own boxing career and to use him as a means to regain his lost honor and prestige while also subjecting him to his own brand of ‘tough love’ that involves emotional and, at times, physical abuse.

Put simply, Viktor was ‘raised in hate’ as Rocky would tell Adonis at one point during the film.

Ivan often scolds and belittles his son during workouts and even between rounds during fights. During the first fight against Adonis for example, he chastises Viktor for failing to knock Adonis out in the very first round and after the second round of that fight comes and goes, during which Viktor again brutalizes Adonis but fails once again to finish him off and even absorbs a hard counter punch from the defiant champion shortly before the bell ends the round, Ivan angrily calls his son an embarrassment and even goes so far as to blame him for his wife’s departure from their lives.
Man that has got to hurt. A rabbit punch followed by a low blow that one was.
And Ivan’s preferred method of waking Viktor up every morning to train is to punch him in the stomach – and not with a friendly love tap, either. We’re talking about a hard jab to the bread basket that jolts his sleeping son awake.

Despite all this, Viktor harbors no ill will towards his father and looks to him as the only person in his life that he can trust. Having been on the wrong end of his father’s wrath his entire life and having been abandoned by his mother at an early age, it is clear that there is a wounded, insecure soul within the gruff exterior yearning to feel loved, even just for a short time.
Geez, Ivan, wake the fuck up and love your son, dude.
The climactic rematch between Adonis and Viktor rolls underway in Moscow towards the end of the film in front of Russia’s social elite, with Viktor’s mother and her husband in attendance. This fight is make-or-break for the Dragos, for Ivan it is a chance to reclaim what he had lost while Viktor senses it as an opportunity to finally earn his father’s respect. Viktor jumps to an early lead but a determined Adonis, fuelled by a desire to gain a measure of revenge for the death of his father at Ivan’s hands and to also put his previous encounter with Viktor behind him, refuses to yield and gradually turns the tide. He eventually outlasts the bigger challenger and in the end, Viktor finds himself fatigued, bloodied and discouraged, compounded by his mother and her husband eventually storming out of the arena when it becomes clear that Viktor’s chances of winning had evaporated.
Abandoned by his mother twice. Damn.
Adonis eventually traps a weary and demoralized Viktor on the ropes and unloads on him, forcing Ivan, who had finally realized that Viktor was right about his ex-wife and the fickle, disloyal people that he had sought to impress, to throw in the towel to save his son from further punishment – the first time we see Ivan perform an act of love towards the son he was hostile towards throughout the film.  

As Adonis celebrates his victory with his family and friends, Viktor stands in his corner with his head bowed in shame and he shoves Ivan away as Ivan approaches him, believing that he is about to be disowned for his failure. But Ivan instead pulls his son into an embrace and tells him, “it’s ok, Son. It’s ok,” and from there Viktor finally allows years of pent-up emotions to run wild as he sobs in his dad’s arms like a wounded pit bull being comforted by its master. He finally feels his father’s love, earning a victory of sorts in defeat.
A sports drama film that included redemption for both the hero AND the villain, provided closure for one of the most memorable characters in the Rocky series and some father and son love thrown in for good measure? Man, what a film! My father was certainly impressed, his first words to me once we had walked out of the cinema was, “that was the best film I’ve seen in a long time.”

Nicely done, Sly. Nicely done.

My father and I had a rather late lunch at the mall afterwards before heading home to do some work in the backyard, planting seeds, pruning trees and watering the plants. Even as the clock nudged 4:30pm, the sun shone as brightly as it did during the morning. Summer had well and truly arrived and it was all good vibes from here.

Life was good!

The icy blast of winter air served as a wake-up call,
Winter’s fury persisted even as the sun gave its all,
The fields resembled a Siberian wasteland, the grass and trees similarly frosted,
People young and old began their day layered from top to bottom,
The cold was miserable, but I didn’t mind,
This day had finally arrived, been impatiently waiting for some time,
It’s the last school day before the two-week winter break,
Students and staff united in good cheer, we’d all longed for this date.

Soon it was lunctime, the day’s almost over,
Just two more classes afterwards before we ride off into the desert,
Some teacher left a classroom unlocked, did someone spike their water!?
An empty classroom full of rowdy teenagers, could be a recipe for disaster,
One of the oldest, too, on campus, rather cramped with a faded teal carpet,
White walls, slightly scuffed, the air stale and probably polluted,
Fooling about in here between classes would be on par with crossing No Man’s Land,
Levels below vandalizing the school, but still the punishment would be rad,
Add to that a stereo and a CD full of rap tunes and you have yourself a party,
We turned the volume way up, it was time to go crazy!

I wanted no parts of this shit, but my buddies were all-in,
It was the last day of school for two weeks, might as well join in,
Sat in the corner of the room as those fools went on a rampage,
It was the year 2000, wrestling and breaking was all the rage,
Wrestling was up first, practically everyone jumped in,
It was like a royal rumble, or whatever they called it back then,
Heavy metal blasted from the speakers as those chumps recreated moves from TV,
They were smart enough not to jump off tables, let alone use them as weapons, the consequences would’ve been nasty,
Channeled their inner Stone-Cold and Dwayne Johnson, before he became an actor,
A few accidental punches and slaps but no one was injured,
The ‘crowd’ went wild, egging on those wannabe alpha males,
Like a scene from Gladiator, but this crowd was surely entertained,
Someone changed the music, it was time for break-dancing, spilled out into the hallway,
That little classroom was quite short on space.

I’d ceased to be neutral, the energy’s contagious, the whole scene was just ridiculous,
Excitement over the pending school break sent the student body delirious,
Coupled by raging hormones and soaring egoes the dancers put on quite a show,
Handstands, steps, tricks, spins and then some, others were unsuccessful with headspins but it was all fun,
We caused quite a racket, surprisingly no one dared to complain about it,
With the stereo on full blast the party went on unabated,
Looked like a scene from Saved By The Bell or maybe a street party in Compton,
Or perhaps in an abandoned building in the rough side of Brooklyn,
We felt like outlaws having a good time but then reality came calling,
The damn bell rang, lunchtime’s over, time to get packing,
Headed back to that classroom, arranged the furniture back in order before bolting, it’s like there was nobody there,
Looks like we got away with murder, that was one lunch break to remember.

Love this tune, breezy duet by Mariah and Krayzie Bone,
Sprinkled with flavor from that classic Willie Wonka song,
Looking back and reflecting on the year that was, the trials and tribulations,
Of lessons learned in the heat of battle, counting blessings and what was taken for granted,
Separating the weak from the strong, uncovering what was there all along,
So strap yourself tight, this’ll be quite a ride,
The year’s almost over, I’m just happy to make it here alive.

16.11.2018

Warning: This post contains plenty of clichés and cheesiness

Another visit to Dr. R’s clinic at the hospital was locked in for the 16^th of November to check my haemoglobin and iron levels, following yet another blood test the previous week. Accompanied once again by my parents, we made our way to the hospital and waited in the spacious waiting area not far from where Dr. R’s room was located, behind one of several doors on the fringes of the waiting area lined with green chairs and sofas that were overlooked by several flat screen TV’s tuned into daytime talk shows. It was early afternoon in the middle of spring and while the winter blasts had gone into hibernation for another year, the pesky winds and pollen in the air made for some rather irritating days.

If only these meds can do something about the hay fever.

Having said that I would much rather put up with hay fever for the rest of my life than have to live with colitis but I digress.
My parents and I were eventually summoned into Dr. R’s office where she told us more good news; my haemoglobin and iron levels were well into the healthy range. I’d already been told by Dr. B a month prior that I was more or less back to normal but it is always gratifying and reassuring to hear from a medical professional that my body was in good working order after a rather grim diagnosis like ‘severe pancolitis.’

Cue the happy dancing in my mind once more, this is another victory to celebrate.

Needless to say we walked out of the hospital and drove back home in high spirits afterwards. I still needed to take my three serves of Imuran and Mezavant every day until further notice but as long I was healthy, it was all good.

I went for a walk one day around this time and as always, I allowed my mind to wander. I’d usually ponder over the usual subjects; family, friends, work, life, martial arts, working out, music, books and all that but on this particular day, my mind touched up on a few compelling places, the first being the year that was and the bumpy, wacky and, dare I even say it, wonderful odyssey that I’d gone through from the moment I began to notice symptoms to the present day. I’ve already banged on ad-nauseam about the battle itself so I won’t go there again, but during that walk I reflected on little things that had kept me going psychologically during those bad times. As clichéd as it sounds the war against colitis gave me plenty of time for deep thinking and soul-searching that taught me how to appreciate those little things, such as the sweet taste of the oatmeal that I ate every morning during breakfast with a banana and a boiled egg on the side (yum!), the smell of the air as the sun shone while I was outside loading up on vitamin D and even the feeling of excitement I would feel before undergoing those walking drills every few hours, the only means of exercise I could muster while still anaemic. And of course conversations with my parents and sister, no matter how random the subject, were also a great way to keep my head above water and every now and then I would also receive some messages of support from friends even though I hadn’t seen anyone outside of my immediate family for months. These interactions helped to remind me that there were people looking out for me and that I was blessed no matter what.

Great meditations there, Kid. Marcus Aurelius would have been proud.

I was devastated and downright pissed off in the days following my official diagnosis but over time, I grew to appreciate the struggle. Perhaps this was the crucible that would test my character and fortitude. After all, nobody said life would be a smooth ride. Sooner or later severe challenges would come our way to find out what we’re truly made of. But don’t get me wrong, a part of me remained angry at the fact that I got this fucking thing seemingly out of sheer bad luck and that there was, apparently, no definitive cure for it yet but I took it one day at a time, doing what I needed to do to keep my body and mind in the best shape possible and once I shifted my mindset from ‘why me?’ to ‘bring it on!’, I found myself thinking about others who were in far worse shape than I was. Severe pancolitis was a literal pain in the ass and not something I would wish upon even my worst enemy, but I also wasn’t fighting a losing battle for my continued existence and was still able to function ‘like a normal person’. So what if I was shitting out blood and gradually became a frail and lethargic shell of myself? It wasn’t fun but others were making funeral arrangements after exhausting all possible treatments for the cancer that had ravaged them, others were getting through another agonizing day trapped in a body locked-up by paralysis, their minds being the lone surviving crew member of a damaged vessel that will never sail again and of course there were people out there living on the streets, some coping with the severe trauma of a wretched experience with no one to turn to and others being beaten down every day by their lonely battle with their vices.
The list goes on and on.
I thought about all of that and wondered who the fuck I was to cry and complain.

Get over yourself, Big Guy. Compared to the suffering of others out there your bitch-ass got off easy!

My meditations continued as I walked and I also thought about my average day-to-day living before the colitis struck. To be more specific I was thinking about the way I worked out. Prior to colitis, I did strength training during mornings before beating up a punching bag we had at home at night on one day, then performed sprints on a treadmill in the garage in the morning before beating up the bag again at night the next day and I’d alternate between days for five or six days. Modesty aside, such a routine gave me a ripped and lean physique like Bruce Lee’s and I took pride in the fact that I was able to power through each day without fear and it certainly helped me in the Wing Chun Academy, as a student and as an instructor. But weighing in at the mid to late 50kg mark, while still reasonable for a rather vertically-challenged man such as myself, wasn’t exactly solid and having to constantly adjust loose trousers despite wearing my belt almost to the last few notches that would strangle most men and having most of the clothes in my wardrobe, even the smallest sizes, feeling baggy on me wasn’t exactly a good look. At times I looked like a little kid wearing his father’s hand-me-downs.
And so I decided during that walk to cut running out of my routine.
I was already punching and kicking the bag. That was good enough cardio for me and was a lot more fun than running. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against running and will continue to swear by its benefits, but I never really was the runner type. As a kid I was too chubby to enjoy it and as an adult I did it to keep fit but hated every minute of it. I already knew other ways to achieve the desired outcome with the added incentive of having a blast along the way in a far shorter period of time and so I decided to ditch the running shoes and leave it to the road warriors.

As I neared the end of my walk my mind took a trip back in time, about eight years to be exact. Between 2010 and 2013 I’d started a blog in which I would give my thoughts on random topics, mostly weird and wacky shit that I’d read about in the news. I was younger, angrier and more cynical back then, the result of being bullied in my youth, even by so-called ‘friends’ that eventually became bullies themselves, and so I spent – or rather, wasted – a good portion of my twenties victimized by a ‘fuck the world’ mentality and trusted no one. Time and maturity, however, eventually saw me grow out of it and reading some of those posts now it is quite mind-blowing to me how much I’d changed since then. If I’d met that version of myself now I’d slap him across the head and tell him to quit being a little bitch, drumming advice into him in the same profane manner that my inner drill sergeant did for me whenever I was in an emotional funk. It would be the height of denial to say that I no longer recognize that person because at the end of the day we will always carry with us any version of ourselves, the good and the bad. But I’ve definitely learned to keep that bitter and cynical fool with the chip on his shoulder on a leash rather than allow him to control me.
I am also an introvert. Always have been. Sure, I’m genial towards my family and friends and well-mannered towards people I meet, even during the height of my ‘fuck the world’ years, but to be honest I tend to keep everyone, even my nearest and dearest, at a certain arm’s length and have a very difficult time ‘letting people in’ so to speak, even to this day. I can open up to a certain extent to some people but even then, they ain’t going to know my deepest thoughts and true feelings. Over the years I have become very, very, very good at masking how I truly felt on a given day, maintaining an upbeat and/or stoic facade even if I was feeling like shit, physically and/or mentally and that’s why no one, not even my parents and sister, knew how badly I had been suffering until I finally came clean to them. I am well-aware that such behavior can be self-destructive but it’s just the way I am and some habits can take a lifetime to break.

On the odd occasion that I do open up to others I tend to express myself far more effectively through words than I ever could through speech and through that old blog, I was able to speak my mind and express my opinions about certain issues and events far more comfortably than I would if I was to talk about it. But somewhere along the way, I gradually stopped writing as work, life and the other things that come with growing up took over. I guess you could say that I totally forgot about writing, which was a damn shame since writing had always been something I felt I was good at, even as a child. I was an average student at school but when it came to writing stories and even essays, guaranteed I would get a good grade. Jack-of-all-trades I was not but I came to see writing as my specialty, though I am far from being among the world’s best.
I’ve thought about getting back into writing again for years but would end up in that dreaded cycle in which I’d start off motivated then gradually taper off and then before I know it, the project is in the scrapheap. But that walk, coupled with the recent memory of the stumped faces of some of my friends and family when I told them what I had been dealing with, rekindled the writer within.

If I’m gonna be cursed by this thing, I might as well turn it into a blessing.

And just like that I decided to start a blog in which I would tell my story, not just as another outlet for whatever ill-feelings I still carried within me and as a means to show the masses what I could do, but at the very least to do my bit to spread awareness about this disease.  And I was not going to hold back, I was going to recount every last ugly, agonizing, colorful detail in my own words. Plus the more I thought about it the more I thought that it was a rather interesting and colorful story, guaranteed to amuse, entertain and shock readers.
I hopped into the car and drove home with a big smile on my face that day. Finally, I’d found my muse. I never thought I’d ever form an alliance of sorts with my enemy but sometimes life is funny like that, a theatre of the unexpected. But don’t get me wrong, it would be a stretch to say that I am thankful to have ever been afflicted by this damn disease. I may have come to see the positive side to it but it didn’t change the fact that suffering from colitis SUCKED! If I had a say in everything that ever happened to me in my life colitis and I never would have ever become acquainted.

Up at 5am on Monday in the middle of Winter,
Snoozed for five minutes, seemed like two seconds, hoped it would go on forever,
Threw off the blanket and sat up rather quickly,
Felt the full force of Winter’s fury, fuck going to work I’m chucking a sickie.
But I pushed on, ignoring the sweet call of the mattress,
He who has the gold ain’t scared of no cold, gotta make sacrifices on the way to greatness,
Stood up and stretched, gathered my work wear before heading for the showers.
Six minutes steaming, didn’t want it to end, carrying on a conversation in my head,
Stepped out at the count of three, cold chills attacked, almost had me doing jumping jacks.
Got dressed up, ready to roll, had a quick breakfast before heading out the door,
No time to feast when you’re living on the fast lane,
Time is short, gotta keep my mind on the game,
This will be a long day, the week’s barely started,
Hopped into the car and gunned it, still too early to deal with traffic.

Parked the car at the library, five minute walk to the station followed,
Body no longer feels hollow, total opposite to my eyes,
These peepers have yet to energize,
Walked through the back of the mighty shopping mall,
Revamped a few times through the years though vandals did a number on the walls,
This wide open space still devoid of crowds, like a mass exodus had gone down,
A few short hours will bring change, shoppers and junkies will soon populate this place,
Benches remain unoccupied, covered in bird shit, the result of sitting directly beneath trees,
A mob of galahs got their party mode on whooping and hollering as they please,
Caterwauling up the branches like hyperactive kids on Red Bull,
Passed through the trees and felt the brunt of their noise in full,
Mocking and taunting, perhaps? At the human weaklings that can’t handle the early morning,
‘Gotta bundle up in the cold and rain? How’d they place themselves atop the food chain?’
Paid those feathered fools no mind, I’m just trying to stay awake,
Taking comfort in the fact that I won’t have to finish late.
Left those birds behind and kept on moving,
Train must be here soon, got no time for goofing,
Broke into a powerwalk, became a half-walk half-run,
The cold air like acid as it scraped against my lungs,
Made it to the train station in time with five minutes to spare,
Already a few souls on my platform, equally zombified with blank stares,
Listening to this tune by 2Pac on my ipod, remix of an old song,
Inferior to the original, still I nod my head along,
The train arrives, chugging lazily before coming to a halt,
The driver’s face said it all, he’d rather be curled up in bed like a ball.

Sat on the top level of a middle carriage, two others there to keep me company,
Early starts and winter mornings are a toxic marriage, I guess I’ll just think about the money,
Still dark outside, the air at North Pole levels,
Turning up my earphones until it’s at dangerous decibels,
The train stops at my destination, time to spring into action,
Seven hours of hard grind just to bring home the bacon.
Now the sun’s rising, the dark of night fades to an early morning purple,
Shivering through my coat and sweater, man I hate this weather.
Approaching my building now, let’s put on a happy face,
I step in and pass through reception, at least there’s heating in this place.

Back into normal routine, so glad to be here,
Free at last, but not so fast, still taking pills for the next few years,
Meditating, contemplating, reviewing the situation like Fagin,
A few hits, some misses, better think it out again,
I done come a long way and now things are looking up,
Gone through the conveyor belt but still no finished product,
Never gonna give up, I’m on the way out,
Obstacles be damned, gonna see this battle out.

3/11/2018

All Souls Day rolled around on the first Saturday of November, a day on the Christian calendar during which worshippers would take time to remember their deceased relatives. For my family it meant going to mass at the cemetery before sitting at the resting place of my late grandmother, waiting for a priest to bless her headstone. It would be the longest amount of time I’d spend away from home since the road trip a few months ago.
Sounds all well and good but there was a catch – there was nary a restroom in sight at this place. Yes, I felt healthy again and could go out and about with confidence but attending an event that would last for most of the day with no visible restrooms? Yeah, innocuous as it might have seemed it was going to be a challenge of sorts for yours truly and I’ll admit that the anxiety that came with the fear of another flare-up and a possible ‘accident’ instantly reared its ugly head, clinging onto me for the better part of the morning like a creepy ex-partner that refused to accept the fact that the relationship had crashed and burned like the Hindenburg

Fortunately, the angry, profane drill sergeant within who had previously pushed me towards resuming ‘normal life’ intervened and gave me the mental bollocking that I sorely needed at the time.

Boy, you kicked Colitis’ ass like a BOSS!!! You haven’t had any relapses or accidents, all this negativity is all in your fucking head!!! Stop thinking like a fucking weakling and get out there!! You’re a motherfucking BEAST!!!!!  

It wasn’t exactly John Hartigan from the film Sin City willing himself to soldier on in order to save Nancy Callaghan from the yellow bastard despite facing certain death from the noose around his neck but it was the type of pep talk that I needed to pull myself together. The anxiety might have been there but that didn’t mean I had to let it overrun and beat me down and once the drill sergeant had his say I was back to my normal self.

Anyway, I woke up on the morning of All Souls Day and had breakfast with my parents before returning to my room to engage in a bit of reading, an activity that I credit for helping me during my recovery and which I still engage in to this day to ward off stress and anxiety. It felt good to open up a book and embark on a half-hour adventure in my mind following a nice morning meal and it helped to ease some of the nerves that, at the time, were still swimming through my mind like Michael Phelps on steroids.
Just a metaphor, folks, not accusing him of anything!
I kept the blinds rolled up and the window open, allowing the spring air and sun to seep through. Man that felt so good! The book I was reading was set in a small town in the Arizona desert so I felt like some sort free-spirited adventure, riding on horseback across that desert without a care in the world as the wind blew through my hair. It was only me and the elements, my trusty steed and various rocks and cacti that framed the unsealed road under the blue sky that was tinted a slight pink from the earthy dust.

But before I knew it, half an hour passed.

Having rested sufficiently, and following the foul-mouthed motivational speech from my inner drill sergeant, I gathered my clothes for the day before heading to the bathroom to shower and dress.

Alright, let’s do this.

Later during the day, following a one-hour service, my family and I camped around the resting place of my late grandmother, waiting for one of the many priests that led the service to make their way towards us to pray for her soul. My grandmother’s resting place was overlooked by a line of trees that blocked off a steel fence that separated the cemetery from a residential area, providing some shelter from the sun. The only seating available was a small stone wall that the line of trees was situated on, surrounded by some flowers that framed a pebble stream. Sitting atop that wall for a long period of time was a literal pain in the backside. Luckily I had trained myself a long time ago to be able to stand for long periods of time.
My grandmother’s resting place was one of many spread out through a vast green field and as I gazed throughout the area I had noticed that some families had set up picnic spreads and some even erected small tents and covers to ward off the sun.
A priest arrived after just a little over half an hour of waiting and we quickly said a prayer for my late grandmother before he blessed her headstone. My parents and I then bade my aunt and uncle good bye before driving out of the cemetery and heading to the nearest grocery store for some afternoon shopping before driving back home.

Mission accomplished without incident. You were sweating bullets for nothing again!

I guess I was. That inner voice wasn’t done chastising me just yet.

Stop selling yourself short, Boy! You’ve proven time and time again that you can handle all the shit that life throws at you yet you still refuse to believe in yourself. What the fuck kind of bitch-ass shit is that!?

Color me humbled, that foul-mouthed son of a gun was totally in the right.

If there’s anything that this particular day had taught me it was that while I had all but won the physical battle (I won’t call it a true victory until the day I am well enough to cease medical treatment but I am well on my way), the mental battle continued. Truthfully, and not to sound clichéd, this turned out to be the hardest part. I could take all the medication in the world and live as cleanly as possible but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have horrible thoughts and paranoid feelings that one day I’d relapse badly, that my body will find a way to reject the treatment and that the disease would undergo some form of deadly metamorphosis.
You’re probably thinking, “Just don’t think about it” and “think positively” and believe me, I tell myself that over and over again whenever I find myself caught in that funk and while I’m always able to snap out of it, some days are harder than others.

I’ve suffered from bouts of depression and anxiety since I was young. It’s never crippled me to the point where I’ve become a danger to myself and others and I have ways of keeping them at bay, but there have definitely been days where I found myself not giving a fuck about anything anymore and others where I cared too much about stupid shit that won’t matter in the long term or fearing the worst about everything. Did either one of those fuckers spring up during the height of my colitis war? Damn straight it did! You bet your last dime that I was depressed over the next few days after receiving my diagnosis and there were definitely times where I’d silently freak out over whether or not I’d ever be ‘normal’ again, scaring myself stupid whenever I felt the slightest hint of pain or discomfort.
But I am fortunate to have good people in my life, both near and far, to keep me in check and remind me that it wasn’t all bad. I also had my coping methods that included, but were not limited to, reading, writing, music, working out (though that was limited during the thick of my recovery) and just standing or sitting outside staring at the sky, whether it was watching the puffy white clouds floating through the endless blue like cotton balls during the daytime or watching ghostly apparitions hovering past the moon in the hypnotic noir at night.
Staring at the sky is quite a soothing, meditative experience. Go ahead, step outside now and try it out for the next ten minutes. It’ll be time well spent.
All up, they all helped to pull me out of the abyss and back into the light, as well as remind me that I was a true fighter, possessed more strength than I thought and that I never folded.    

I’ll never fold.

I got through that day in one piece without any problems. I am still on the right track. I just have to keep on fighting.