Posted by The tops of both my feet are a horror show.
Open wounds, glowing red. That sort of odd gelatinous hue where just enough skin has been milled away to expose…whatever comes next. Certainly enough to send an eight year old to see the school nurse, and enough to make a 48 year old question his life choices (or more immediately pressing, which socks will be most comfortable). Let’s not talk about my shins, which resemble a 12 year old David who mis-struck a pedal on his freewheel bmx bike while attempting a hastily made jump, only to have it shred his skin seemingly down to the bone (not really, but thats what it felt like for all of us, every single time). Lets not discuss my nipples, which are rubbed raw from the material that’s been pressed between me and another sweaty, voluptious, hearty 200+lb man.
Three days. I’ve been back on the mat for three days. Open mats on Friday and Saturday, and tonight, my first class in months. Between those sessions, my epidermis is more reminisicent of road kill. Three sessions. It don’t take much.
I try to think about how and why I allowed myself to go dormant in the winter months, managing to avoid doing almost anything productive for either my physical or mental health, practically in a state of suspense or hibernation. Eventually it all points back to my generally depressive state and the stranglehold it establishes during the winter months. Then I find myself locked in a death-grip relationship with my PS5 and the futon in my basement, almost as though I’ve regressed back to being a 17 year old David, longing to block out the world and the voices of self-doubt bellowing with reality-arrows of having few friends, zero love interests, being from a poor family at a rich kid school, only passing each semester because I had special athletic talent, and still processing my parents divorce. It don’t take much.
Re-entry is difficult in almost all circumstances. In my case it’s taken a few different recent episodes of self-awareness to get me back in the gym. Fortunately once there, other than a few “where have you beens?” from regulars I already had good rapport with, it was business as usual. I felt comfortable doing drills, my rolls (sparring) were all very positive considering the time I’ve had off. I rolled once with one of the coaches, the one I used to take private lessons with, to get some tips for my reentry and things I need to think about going forward to improve my game.
At the end of the session I walked through the parking lot and a guy from class flagged me down. He is a couple of belts higher than me and not someone I do more than shoot a nod to before and after class. We don’t really speak and I’ve always gotten the vibe that he doesn’t like me. He lets me know that I was cooking the other big guys tonight and that I need to get into the morning sessions, which have a reputation for having all of the really good, really aggressive super sized folks. I demur for a moment and say “yeah I dont think I’m tough enough” and he proceeds to give me an impromptu pep talk about how well I was doing and that I shouldn’t sell myself short. I left class on a high, thinking about how much I leave behind when I am not showing up regularly and how good this space, these people, and this activity is for me on a multitutde of levels and spheres. 90 minutes, three times per week, is less than 2% of my week, and it has such a massive, positive effect on the other 98% I’d be a fool to let depression in all its manifestations to intervene in that.
It don’t take much.