I guess sometimes I lose my mind....at times in a state of depression for no real apparent reason, and times in a state of rage. Rage on those who ever doubted me, rage on those who hurt me, and rage against the single piece of metal that has hurt so many of my close friends.....the bar. I sometimes lose my mind in a stage of excitement. A sudden burst of insanity fuels my heart with hope to one day become the man I never saw myself being so many years ago. A solo piece of happiness that whispers in the back room of a meet, that one day I could be a great father, teaching my kids everything that I have learned, and most importantly...what not to do. Yes, some hate me and most disagree, but for those that stand with me......it's all worth it. For those who get me, I get them. Yes I slam bars, and yes I like drinking coffee, but most importantly I say no to all the things that have crippled me, a no to those who once surrounded me. Drugs are a far away world, as coffee reminds me of the path I am on. Guiding me to the stage where skeletons of my past look on. I play my violin to not forget....but to never hide the feelings that once shadowed myself from myself. The coming down was always the worst. A living room with no furniture spoke thoughts of reality, as the light from the rising sun peaking though the shades made my pale skin feel warm, as my teeth chattered from the cold room. My back against the wall, as my knees held my chin. I am death; I am nothing; I am a slave to the crystals that fill my soul. I am scum on earth that chooses easy rather than hard. I simply do not live......so excuse me if I now choose to live.
My eyes heavy from up all nights and long talks. Talks about so many goals and dreams that truly only live in smoke rings. Smoking a cigarette to the butt....only means you're not done with the nicotine rush. Yes this morning might be here, but I am no where near facing what I have become. As the fan turns like the bar, only in this chapter of my life it turns in fear. I remember crying in the bathroom as my ribs would stick out from my side, eyes so dark and wide you would think I wasn't alive. If you have been down this path you know about the itching that takes place, for skin only falls when the smoke fills your space. Every flake would shed a tear, as I hoped no one heard my sniffling from near. Hanging with a crew like this.....you never showed weakness......funny looking back.....that's all we were, weak. I lose my mind from time to time, only to find it in a better place than before. When this mind is lost this body is weightless, the only thing heavy is the weights I lift. My past is heavier than any bar, as my past skeletons are my coach....rooting me on from afar. So sue me if I slam this bar, or kick me out from this family I once thought was mine. The talk chatters at night that things are already in order for leaving me outside. What they don't understand is the dark is what I like.....the only thing that truly scares me is the sunlight. I write alone in this dark room I call home. A part of me still lives in the past, but I choose this, for my past has turned into you, as gold medals fill my room. Without the dark I would have never seen the lights on the stage, walking out to a bar is my freedom from being a slave. If you don't think empty living rooms with smoked filled clouds is being a slave..... then you have never saw the sun creep in through the shades. My friend......weightlifting is heaven, as blue skys fill my cheeks with smiles and cries. I guess the character from Training Day nailed it to my surprise.
This is a blog about the person you are. I am me, you are you. Our skeletons have different pasts as our training room might play different tunes. For those that shun our light, our sun.....they are the ones who live everyday not knowing where they come from. Accept your past, don't fight yourself, get to know your skeletons at last. Your past is you and you are truly strong and true. I am me and with you we are three...you, me and the skeletons make three.
Weightlifting is my love.....but my wife is my life. My dogs are my heart. My future kids are my blood....and you the reader are my understanding and my teammate...not in weightlifting but in life we fight. You and I can achieve anything believing in.....well.....you and I.
Don't change. I will not. I have never forgot what the dark as done to my life.....it has made me happy, and introduced me to my wife.
Can you hear me? I can hear you. Scrolling through old blog posts trying to figure out witch one to re post......re post? Fuck re post. If they missed it then they missed it. We got it, even if they can't understand it. They are those who miss opportunities on purpose and then blame others for missing the bus. You see the world as I do, as I see it through your eyes as if I was you. You feel that....the bar in your hands? Completely in control of your own destiny? The future cant be told, for that you are blind, as I lay a thousand miles away wishing I knew mine. Medals can't be seen from under a turning fan......but doing what we love is ours.....as simplicity can fool the smartest of ones. The smell of chalk doesn't change, just like our love for the sport stays the same. Isn't it funny......that we are still here, as so many have walked out. Its been years now and the Orchestra still plays as this black stage salts our feet, as our pasts watches us from the back seats. Completely dark, besides the small light peeking in from the bottom of the old broken door that leads to wherever you walked in from. The lint from the dusty stage dances within the light, as the skeletons continue to make strings cry....as we still sit and watch with eyes of wide.
It's been over two years in this stage of black, you still sit with me in complete silence. Why? So much has happened on the outside, to both you and I. What keeps us visiting this place? Why do we love to listen to our skeletons play violins? Why so dark? Has anybody ever tried to turn on a light? This Orchestra sounds horrible from all the strings that have broke, and the salt that has rusted out the wood. Seats that creek and floors than moan. Cob webs that hang while dust claps after every showing. This place is a bloody mess, a disaster, a completely broken down piece of shit! Has anybody every tried to clean this solitude mistress up? "No......leave the fort alone and don't change a fucken thing. This is life, this is past, this is future, this is us, this is beautiful, this is art, this is bright, this is home, this is real, this is true, this is me, this is you...." Skeleton.
I sometimes forget to visit such a dark place when things in my life are going so right. My ignorance leaves me forgetting what has gotten me to this point. My past bad and wrong, dark and sorrowed songed......has not done me wrong, but has instead ended me up here, next to you listening to this song. PLAY ON SKELETONS PLAY ON! I yell from the stage, skeletons always hard to see for they play so far away. I don't know if my dad ever re-visits anymore.....that one time he did, his tears pushed him out the door. My success is due to this stage with you, accepting my past has brought me strength times two. Has time changed me from visiting the dark? I think not my friend because I am back again.....something is pushing me to write words through this salt filled pen. It's when I am the most happy I get the most down. I have hurt so many, and made so many mistakes, my head hangs low as I feel less than worthy. Faces of the past and feelings towards the future, at times leave me locked in my office for hours, as the door guards locked they from the outside. Fuck they, stay away. They will never understand us. Stay away good times, for sorrow is my guest. A podcast if upbeat usually means I'm heavy in my chest.
It's good to see you again my friend. Let the our past be our future......and our friendship become our strength. Salute to every skeleton who has stayed with this blog from the start, this is only the beginning to a new start.
What the fuck has happened? Shadows come alive on my wall from the fan turning above my head. Spin and click, wobble and move.....this fan creates life in my midnight room. Elephants juggle beach balls on their nose. Boo! Jokers with white face paint laugh with palms wide open, making my eyes close for a slight second....before reopening. The change of wind from my slightly cracked window turns the circus show on my wall to a more scenic adventure. Mountains of high, surrounding roads of long, as yellow lines flash as the AC blows. Windows down and sun hitting the right side of my face....I can feel it now laying on my mattress in place. Gas station stops while YouTube plays on my phone, a fast look at Steiner winning gold before my gas pump clicked with aggression. I seem to always feel a click away from one day making it big, lifting big and achieving elephant size dreams. A dollar in my pocket, as gas money came from bottles of exchange. My white dodge neon cried as the door opened, the smell of worn breaks made my eyes water, cover your nose sweetie, this car is going under. My body weak.... my mind strong......my pockets broke as my attention moves on.
"Welcome to T.G.I.Fridays," I would say. A big smile on my face that soon turned grey......my eyes shut as life prostitution becomes sound. Selling my dreams to a door at 2 AM became steady and bound. My life seemed fucked, this was fact. The cold air whistling through my bedroom window reminded me of this time way back. Opening doors for others as mine stayed shut. Weightlifting videos played on repeat.......as my dirty clothes stunk like piss. My bedroom wall became filled with moving parts, all that somehow were magically put together for me to write this diary I call this blog. The Orchestra plays a story of long.
"I got 5 sweetie,!" I would yell from the broken apartment on the bad side of Sac. Loud bass pumping against all four walls as cars outside sat on blocks and windows laced with locks. Shots at night kept us up, as noodle of top filled our cups. "I got 5!," I would yell from the bedroom closet. Scattered clothes laid out like someone opened a cargo plane door. My wife's eyes opened like the door at Fridays as a giant leap and a hug fell onto my arms, we spun around the room until we became weak, sweat dripped from our foreheads from the hunt that we called pocket searching. So hungry......so broke......finding money in some month old jeans made for an overwhelming lump in our throats. Joy was an understatement.....as McDonald's dollar menu made for an early thanksgiving feast. Our bikes took us over the bridge to dinner we pedaled.....this meal will make us lift bigger weight than ever......and once Fridays pays me our training will spike like no other. We even had some left over change to buy a monster energy drink that we shared together......training that day was like no other.
Survival not to survive......but survival to stay alive......Weightlifting.
Random fucking jobs we would work, almost taking turns being the pimp. Waiting for my wife outside the mall at 1 AM made my mind fucking spin. What the flying fuck were we doing in this town? Is weightlifting worth all this waiting around? Training was great, but the life style fucking sucked. I felt like a prostitute waiting to get fucked. My wife entered the neon of broke, smell still so bad I would rather go back to blowing coke. She cried as her boss was a dick....I guess this mother fucker was yelling at her once again. This dick......my anger ran high, as my motivation to win the Weightlifting National title became overwhelmingly dyer. I would do anything to get us out of this shit hole life! I banged the steering wheel as spit came flying out of my dry hungry mouth. A lock on our door...........this is where our lives hit the floor. Two months late on the rent meant living on the car floor. Team USA to be on the moon, for my national title packed up and moved to Mars. The shadows on my wall were now dancing devils.....skeletons of some sort as they played their fiddles.....I was fucked......
I let my wife down and my family. This weightlifting journey left me in a pile of shit. Now homeless and empty with no food or place to shit. Random bathrooms for washing, for even thinking about training became daunting. So mad at the world road rage became worse. Middle fingers never went down almost as a curse. This led to me punching an athlete at Sac high, I guess the kid was 18 years old......how was I supposed to know. Parting with Doherty and Jackie Mah.....was one of the hardest things this journey had to offer. To this day I feel bad......to this day I feel awful. Now homeless and broke, no place to train, considered reckless and wild in my weightlifting family I became.
Months dragged on, working at the Nutrishop taking out the garbage and cleaning labels I was. Jon fucking North......before Jon Fucken North. Chatter of training talked all around me, as people never once noticed me. College drop out living in a dodge neon.......bum of society....scum of the Earth. I swept those floors solid 'til my arms fell off. I kept thinking about my wife being yelled at by her dick boss at the mall. I was angry but steady, I was sad but fierce. I was down but not out.....I was defeated but not dead. The one thing that kept me going was Weightlifting.....training.....competing. You think we stopped? Fuck you. Once I picked up the bar at Sac State with Ben Claridad I never put it down. Do you hear me world! Do you hear me society! Fuck you! You might have punched me in the fucken face.....you might have kicked me when I was down......but I am still MOTHER FUCKEN HERE YOU MOTHER FUCKER! I still trained. On the bus I road to the Power House Gym in Sacramento. With the money we made I paid that monthly fucken bill, I slammed bars still! Loafs of bread we would steal....only to eat for training to one day hopefully become.........champions.
His hat laid low, blue and beat up. His jeans tight and his legs out to the side, in a stance that looked like the Eiffel Tower. Not lifting at this local meet he stood, way in the back of the room. My piss smelled clothes and my change chattering pockets approached. My body skinny and my dreams big. I asked him a question about training.
Back burnt to a crisp from the overwhelming heat of our past. Our necks pinch in pain from the constant looking back, seeing those we have lost throughout this sport. The old saying is, "they come and they go," but do they really? I still feel them behind me as I stand upon this railing. I still feel their presence on this bridge. I still see their faces hang in defeat as I hang mine in pain. At times lonely in a sport of one, surrounded by many that can be easily forgotten when alone too long. To repeat the same thing everyday makes for bones weary and eyes teary. Minds lose the simple touch to reality, as dark gyms breathe clouds of cold while dark shadows sit beside you for company. Once friends, once teammates.....never to be heard or seen again.....only memories fill this gym as my old Adidas shoes look back upon my empty face, in pure solitude, while a blanket of hell lays upon my back keeping me warm and ready for my next attempt. I am a warrior of this gym, of this platform.....and I will die amongst my shadow, I will take my final breath chasing my goals....even if the single goal I am trying to reach kills me. I am the dark. I am hell. I am a survivor of a sport that kills so many. A sport that breeds to destroy and grows to chop, for dreams are big and the fall is hard, the sound sounds nice as the sight from afar looks bright. One only feels the true fright once the weeks stack upon the next, as the body hurts and the money runs tight. Parents and friends ask why.....and soon you do too. I stand on this rail with the wind meeting my face. This spring day makes me want to train outside more often. A beautiful day like this makes me wish I was a cyclist. A hand simply lays itself upon my right shoulder, as another hand wraps around my left ankle. My naked body warm from the hot air that soothes my soul, as my skin gets cold from the past trying to ease me off the rail of this tall bridge. I find it funny that we think we are the ones holding onto the bar......
My penis hangs like my toes 80 feet above, as my heels stay down and dig, just like I have been taught, just like my body has known to understand after all these years. Hands out wide like an eagle ready to fly, ready to be set free. It seemed like yesterday that when the front door opened I would jump with joy for the idea of fresh blood, new lifters.......something new in a gym of the same. I'll never forget the day I started hating this sport......and we all do at some time or another. It reminded me of the time when Donny was asked in an interview what his favorite lift out of the two was. His hat laid low, his eyes lowered, as his silence convinced the room it was a question taken very seriously. He then with no movement at all, no hand jesters or a single blink of an eye responded with...."I hate 'em both". The day I came to this same conclusion is when all my friends left me. They walked into the door with a smile on their face, while mine smiled back ready and eager to embrace new teammates....new friends.....only to be constantly taken away by the devil in the red dress. Once friends, now dust on a bar. Once training partners, now a partner of my own. All alone again as my path continues with left over shadows of others and myself. Memories that fill the eye as these keys tap. For this blog is a dark hole of what has happened and what will come. Doors now open while my eyes stay down, hardened by the reality of what this sport brings.....broken bars and shoes of old, plates of color as dark is my new father. A single light to 5 rings is the shadow that others leave. Guiding me to what they could not, as their lack of strength gives me fire within my gut. Shankle who has taught me more than weightlifting.....but how to fight, will carry on with me 'til the day I cannot. I sit alone on my resting bench as the dark gives me light. My old shoes still with me in this never ending fight. I still stand with this hand on my back, burnt from the burned out light they try to keep me back. My past is my past while mistakes I have made. Gold medals and victories are hard to find underneath a pile of dirt, pissed on by others and laughed at by most. Doubts within and doubts by others, chatter behind my back even by those I call my brother. 8 years down, this reunion is emotional. I wanted to write to you the Nation, a family I call home. It's nice to be able to talk to someone in a sport of such solitude.
Scared......fuck yes. Nervous.......fuck yes. Not only about letting go.....but the next 8 years. An email was sent and I read. Wise words from a lion, who takes pray on heads.....in the jungle he roams in areas unknown. His legacy forever will live on......and lessons taught will never be forgot. I now know what I must do to succeed moving forward..........
I let go, as my heels raised like my head to the sky. I fell to the water of cold.......to fully embrace my future not yet told......
