You Make Me Sick [a blog]

current mood:
current song: "You Make Me Sick" by Egypt Central

I haven't written anything here in almost two years. You'd think that once I acknowledged the itch for what it was, that the desire to dust off this little corner of cyberspace – do we still call it that – would rise to the surface. It didn't. Quite frankly, I have no idea what to say. How do you explain in a way that doesn't come off trite? When I left, I was in possession of two championships in companies that closed so abruptly, I never even received my final pay. Despite that, I was doing well. I was destroying and dominating the competition. I won't bother to drop names. I don't expect my previous reputation to precede me. I'm not that delusional, certainly not that egotistical.

I meant something once. I could cling to that. Most would and then spend an eternity ramming nostalgia down collective throats. Once something is online, it's there forever. You can look me up at your leisure, warts and all. Sadly, that's the world we live in now. Information at our fingertips.

The last few weeks have been especially hard. As the year draws to a close, we're always wont to wax nostalgic over what's passed. These days, social media is happy to remind us of all those benchmark moments over the last 365 days and trot them out for our benefit. It's times like this that remind me why I allowed these sites to lapse for so long. I can't stand the feeling of complete and utter isolation. There's no community. No camaraderie. There are just endless streams of words scrolling across the screen and it's up to you to snag something, to shout into the void and garner attention. Why would I want to? There's nothing worth saving, worth latching onto.

Memory is funny.

Subjective.

I'm headed to Florida, signed now to a company with names I recognize from that brief moment I passed through Atlantic City and stepped into a Boardwalk Wrestling ring. I don't expect them to know me, to even recall brushing shoulders backstage so long ago. I barely recall the match outside of knowing I was on a team with the world's biggest pariah. I won't bother to drop names. If you choose to look it up for yourself, that's fine, but I'm not handing out free publicity to the undeserving.

So much has changed over the last two years. So many things are the same – the egos, the demands, the travel. I hate doing this alone. I always did. Tonight, I boarded a plane, earlier than I needed to. I could have pushed it closer to the event. I could have spent more time with my dogs, with my horses – I know I need to force myself to shift gears instead. I must set my mind at ease before I hit that ring against the man with the unfortunate moniker of John E. Depth. He looks like a poor man's Ron Jeremy. Is that reference too dated these days? Am I showing my age in a business that seems more about various alliterative-themed photo-whoring days than any sort of skill? Ladies, I invented #SideBoobSunday when you were in high school. The difference is that I just had more class than to post the photos myself. That used to be what the paparazzi were for – we cursed them for that, of course. We feigned outrage and watched as the machine did what it was meant to.

It's too forced now. Unnatural and contrived. There are 'leaked photo' scandals daily (which is really sad, mind you) but some of these women are slipping nips and teasing labia on a semi-daily basis. If that's what this business has become for women, I don't want to evolve with the times. I'll be Sandra Bullock in the rowboat with the blindfold rather than gawk at all the disgusting things parading across my screen. And maybe that's what the movie was actually about. Maybe social media has the power to manifest our worst fears, to whisper in our ears and beg us to look. Just one look. You know you want to see.



Honestly don't. I know my star is in danger of burning out. Can you hear the fizzle over there? I can and that begets the obvious conclusion: I'm only doing this because I need the fame more than anything else. That's what you think, isn't it? I'll be forthright with you and head off that question right now: let me tell you why I've returned. Why now? Why couldn't I let retirement stick when I made such a point to bitch about how badly those previous promoters burned me? Am I a sucker for punishment? Or worse yet, a hypocrite?

Memories are tricky. Enough time passes, and the rough edges wear down. We forget the rough times, the moments we weren't at our best. Four years of making up for lost time becomes infinite and minuscule at the same time. We wear the reminders of the tough times, though. In wrinkles around our eyes, in frown lines and scars alike. I have many and I can still tell the story for each. I have an acorn tattooed on my wrist as a reminder of why I'm still here: I'm the survivor, the one who came first, the one who gets to remain behind and pick up the pieces. I've gotten good at it.

My brother, the reason I got into this damned business, has been gone for thirteen years. It still feels like yesterday and I hate myself for being in Europe when it happened, half a world away and wrestling in a seedy rec centre for peanuts. I endured the struggle, those days when women's wrestling was more gimmick than a showcase of skill. I hated every moment of those degrading matches. Bra and panties. Hair pulling. Pudding. Let's be honest: the social media thirst trap thots that flit through companies these days don't understand what it was truly like to be exploited and would probably dissolve in tears if they had to take a step back to 2002. Sitting here, I can feel the righteous anger deep in my guts, low simmer, smoldering burn. I didn't want to drift off on a tangent here but I need you to understand who I am, where I'm from.

Remember I mentioned how the last few weeks have been hard? Christmas Eve would have been our third wedding anniversary. I still remember the night he proposed, how nervous he seemed. I remember every facet of those last couple years and I don't regret stepping away from the business when I did because it gave me time to simply live my life. To love deeply and fully.

I broke a few horses, gently and slowly, the way I learned from my grandpa when I spent summers on the farm in Ancaster. We settled on the ranch in California. We hired a staff to care for the animals while we were absent. We sailed around Europe. We settled into a peaceful routine and I was so damned happy for the first time in my life. It felt like forever. It was barely a year and a half. Good things come to an end. Always. The past comes calling and old debts only collect interest. They don't vanish just because you managed to cheat fate for once.

I would lament about it not being fair, but I'm an adult and I know that's not the world we live in. Life isn't. This business isn't, either. But at least it makes sense in a time where I desperately need it. See, I figure if I put myself back out there, if I work long enough, hard enough, maybe I'll sweat all this poisonous hate out. Like some ancient ritual. Purge the toxins around the ceremonial fire, as it were. Sometimes I fear losing them. Does that make sense? They're part of me. Those experiences, those memories. If I let them go, would I lose weight? Would I become so insubstantial that I might disappear altogether?

I don't want to think about it. I'm getting older. Every time I come back, I get to thinking this might be the last time. Every time I hit the ring, I wonder if this will be the end? Go one further, to the one thing rattling around in the back of my mind: I don't care. If I sink or even drown, so be it! I need this. I'm going to try my best. I'm going to rebuild and I'm going to destroy in the same breath because that's the contradiction that I am.

John E is out of his depth on this one. Out with the old, in with the new. It's that time of year, after all.