Musings: June 5, 2022
I just hit my head.
I hit my head hard, which actually isn’t a very difficult thing to do in my Tudor-aged house. I came through a doorway and came up too quickly and I’m actually seeing stars.
I’m only try to put my clothes away in my "wardrobes" that should be in my actual bedroom, which can’t fit wardrobes cuz the stupid barn isn’t done, but can’t do that until the bloody mortgage comes through, and probably can’t afford the stinking renovations because judo people don’t want to learn online, albeit from the best in the business, and the damn craft shop has closed so need to find another shop to stock Uniqi products, and I have to get my shit together to get the girls to school as Brooke’s car has decided it doesn’t want a f**king clutch anymore….. sigh…the vortex of negativity is real, folks.
As my dad used to say, ‘just want to move a little gravel!’ born from ‘Gravelgate’.
Exasperated in an attempt to move a pile of gravel, the truck Dad wanted use to load the gravel wouldn’t start, so he needed the tracker to boost it, but then he would need to fix the flat tyre in order to move the tractor to the proximity of the truck and, incidentally out from behind said pile of gravel. It’s now a family saying as most of Tom’s phrases have become.
I’m going to say right off the bat here, this is not a pity post. I haven’t written in a while, as again, I have let life get in the way and seemed to have lost my mojo in that mix. But I digress.....
So here I am, stars circling my head à la Wylie E Coyote. I stumbled to my bed edge to gain composure, cuz I feel them coming. The stinging, hot, salty droplets of weakness pushing at the floodgates.
No! I say to myself, Don’t give in!
Knowing once I go, I don’t know if can stop. I can feel the pent up frustrations of the last two years dangerously close to the overflow lip just waiting for that one extra drop to send it all spilling over the edge.
I see it before I feel it. The blurry, wet vision to say, ‘Here I Come!’ Then the single, hot rivulet, tickling down my cheek plopping with an almighty thud from my chin onto my jean-clad thigh.
Then there’s the gulps for air, thinking that somehow air elementally trumps water, but it’s no use. The brain has engaged, craving the release that a good, ugly cry gives.
I’m now cursing that I can’t even let loose and give it a good ol’ howl as my two daughters are home from school and in the next room. Motherly protection kicks in; I don’t want to worry them. I don’t have the energy to talk about it.
I don’t really want to say it out loud, as really I probably couldn’t, not really knowing what IT is, specifically. It’s all just a haze of grey. And I have friends who are going through some really tough shit, I mean really tough, and I can’t rationalise my frustrations against theirs.
Mine are business-based, theirs are family and health troubles, not that The Adams & Jenkins haven’t had their share of family drama in the last few weeks, both great and not-so-great, so thankfully my mess is a bit more in my control or at least my reaction to it is. As you can note from above, not reacting so well at the mo, though.
Being in business for yourself is a freeing, frustrating, pride-building, ego-dashing, rewarding, and soul sucking rollercoaster.
The pandemic again was an oxymoron for us. It finally demystified online learning and showcased our teaching website to wary judokas. However, we found a new formidable opponent in the explosion of free YouTube judokas. How do you combat free content when it’s their hobby and it’s our business?
You sell bands. You sell judo bands like they will save the world, and in some truth they did, our world.
And you innovate. We took an idea that Neil had floating in his head for some time and ran with it. To be honest, I enjoyed the process and now our Skimmers are gaining traction, or should I say, sailing out the door.
Also, our mortgage came to term which we have been painstakingly planning for 5 yrs to satisfy, when in a blink of an eye, events were stopped, dojos were closed, contracts were cut, therefore our earnings, and if you’re self employed, you know what a picnic getting a mortgage is!
Another hot, salty one of frustration, bordering on anger, finds its way from my cheek.
My instant thought is how do we cover that loss of earnings? I really thought we were passed this point in our business.
I really take umbrage to being put back into this position as I had finally settled into the thought process of ‘enough’.
From all my life of trying to be the top, or at least ahead, to finally sitting down, looking around saying- we have it good here, we have enough - to then suddenly being whipped-lashed back into ‘chasing the money’, I’m suddenly really tired.
And I don’t like it.
It’s the knife edge of a slippery slope to resignment, which is nowhere near the feeling of ‘enough’.
I wrack my vault of memories for lessons from my past, as I do, and the first vision that pops up is qualifying for the Olympics in the years of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-five and ninety-six.
I remember sitting there on the edge of my bed, as I am now, in my one room flat in Mount Royal, Montreal feeling exactly this way. My bed was a mattress on the floor there and here I am on a super king bed frame, so I’ve done something right, I suppose.
In my mind’s eye, I can see my judo bag open in front of me, judogi folded but not yet put in. My black belt thrown in but hanging out, reflecting my indecision.
Why? I remember asking myself. Why am I doing this? Who am I doing this for? Is anyone going to thank me for doing this, if I succeed? What is success? The qualifying or The Games, itself? Rue Rachel, Mont Royal, Montreal, Canada
I was, then, in the middle of trying to qualify for my place on the Canadian Olympic Team and the Gods were making me work hard for it. There were only 2 spots available in the whole of the Pan-American Union. Upon a disastrous Pan-Am Games, I was in spot 2, however, I was tied with the Brazilian candidate for that last coveted ranking.
I had just heard, for the third time in that last 8 months, that our fight-off had been postponed. The Games were in July and here I was, knocking on May.
I was tired.
My body was tired from training for three fight-offs.
My mind was tired of the singular focus needed to pack that damn bag every day.
My soul was tired of being used as a political bean bag and feeling alone in my quest.
Everyone else had either already qualified or knew they hadn’t and were embarking on new life adventures.
I was in limbo. And it was lonely.