Note: I know it’s a horrible word and lots of folks really dislike it. But I do use the “c” word and spell it out here at least once.
So after I posted yesterday, I decided it might be best to go for a drive before diving into creative pursuits and just listen to some music for a bit. Finding an indie rock playlist on YouTube helped with the decision to waste gas for a couple of hours, plus there’s a town about 90 minutes away from here that has a great little Mexican restaurant, and I was thinking very strongly about their picadillo burritos. Where I live has some of the best in the state, but this place wasn’t here. I did not want to be here. I wanted to go somewhere.
I started my drive, and realized it would be practical to just turn on gig work and stay home, and plan a trip later. Perhaps go further out to the Metroplex and catch a sports game of some sort, grab a bite at El Fenix (oh my goggles they have the BEST chips and queso), or even do some shopping at one of their outlets. It’s been so long since I’ve gone out that way, I don’t even know if their massive Grapevine Mills is still there. What a sweet thing to consider: retail therapy, good Mexican food, and some good music for the ride, with a sporting event? I’m up for it! But for now, gig work, let myself focus on something practical, and make an actual trip out of it later.
I spent…gosh…6 hours, I think? Got 12 deliveries in, made a hundred bucks, and came home and made nuggets and fries after seriously considering McD’s since I wore myself OUT. But I got home and checked socials before bed, I can let myself off the hook a little since I didn’t look at it at all except to share a colorful picture of wall tiles and a new selfie during one of my pickups. I did not expect to see what I saw.
Pa O’Dwyer, Ireland’s strong man, and an incredibly kind human, passed away of a heart attack earlier in the day. He was 41. He was in the middle of preparing for an event, and if I was following him correctly, was near the end of a deep cutting phase, entering build and tone. I could speculate on dehydration, but that’s not my business, whether he’s here or not. But here’s the thing, he gave it all every day. He stood firmly on moral ground, calling out those who were nasty, and giving props to folks just doing or being their best selves, typically in the area of fitness or strength.
And he never flinched at the ever-scary “c” word.
As a matter of fact, when I first came across his Instagram account, I was just moving into a homeless shelter and moving back into old and dormant socials. So finding his account was because I was looking up fitness brands and folks involved, and I clutched my pearls over the idea that a man would boldly use it so often, whether it was appropriately targeted or not. It didn’t take long to get used to it, because he was giving it back to people who more than deserved the call-out.
One of the subplots of my own journey has been how I’d quietly think “cunt” when old memories would come up. I’d imagine doodling the word over the label on their work shirt or their hat, just like Pa did, and I’d quietly giggle to myself, just like he would. It was a lot like imagining someone who hurt you as being a giant Payday bar (symbolic of a giant turd) walking by you. It might be immature thinking, but if someone’s going to act like a shit, why not envision it to remind yourself who they are?
This wasn’t desensitization for me. It was realization, and of several things. I was raised my whole life that it was impolite or disrespectful to treat someone like they treat you. You know, the whole “do unto others” thing, but that also included being nice to people who were absolute sticks to you. This wasn’t a slight on customer-service related work, where I can recognize that someone is angry because something has not gone right, and they need it fixed. I’m talking about people who made it a daily ritual to treat me poorly when I was a child and completely defenseless. I grew up in an environment where even church elders said it was wrong to be disrespectful to these people. As a defenseless child, sure. Don’t provoke more harm from people who already actively harm me. But as an adult, it was also difficult to express my pure dislike for these same people.
Pa’s message to me was “you don’t have any obligation to be kind to people who are unkind.” Not that he sent me a DM or anything. And I never reached out to the guy, but just sitting in a space full of people who made it known that it was okay to be mad or feel negative about someone who was being negative gave me a subconscious strength that I didn’t realize I had until the last few days.
What’s even more interesting to me is that, when I step outside of myself, and I look at what I am doing or saying, I’m not being different than any other (dare I say) normal person. But I bet they don’t have the same near-panic that I would feel over whether they’re going to get in trouble or be hurt for it. They probably don’t worry about losing people or making people mad. They probably don’t have nightmares and flashbacks about getting beat or getting the silent treatment for a season simply because they expressed themselves.
This is why I long for autonomy. I want the independence that says “I really don’t need anyone to be alive and be happy, feel blessed, or find contentment. This is why I’ve not stopped and said “no, I can’t do this anymore, I am done.” This, I feel, is why I kept seeing how much internal pain I could endure. I kept saying “you can handle more pain than this.” I kept telling myself “They want you to stay down, so you are not giving up.”
That’s something I am learning right now (about myself). I’m learning that I still have the capacity to be strong for myself without shame. I’m learning that I can speak up for myself when the time calls for it. I can endure someone telling me that I am meaner or ruder than I used to be. That I can fail so many times and yet here I am still going, still succeeding. I am learning that these words should never come from myself. Because I am not meaner. I am not ruder. And I am most certainly not a failure.
This has been a long trip, let me assure you, but to be shameless about my own personal guardianship, about meeting myself where I am with pride and treating myself with the dignity I deserve, and learning that I don’t mind bending a little lower or reaching a little higher to attain that which I am aiming for, whether that thing is a goal like succeeding in therapy, or getting my 5k down to half an hour, or experiencing authentic emotions like kindness, empathy, joy, sadness, desperation, anger, all without guilt, or finding the freedom to feel anything at all.
I’ve been rigid for so long in trying to meet the standards set by people who either wanted to harm me, actively felt so embarrassed by me that they would choose to severely limit my ability to simply exist, or tell me that my negative feelings were wrong and I need to moderate myself. Being able to just experience a word, like cunt…to hold it in my mouth, taste it, savor it for a moment and decide “this word is too spicy, but I will keep it in the cabinet for later, just in case,” or to hold a feeling in my heart just long enough to hear it speak to me from where it resides — these aren’t common things for me. Words aren’t just words anymore. They are tools. They are paints on an easel waiting to be used when the time is right, or whenever I choose. Just like feelings are the aura of a situation and how one’s body and mind interpret them. There is something very artistic about this. Very vulnerable. Very pure, even the most impure things can’t hang on to something that is becoming unabashed in its life flow.
And I am choosing to explore every word, every emotion, every action without shame, without disconnection, without embarrassment, and without the need to become chemically altered in order to do so.
I lost a couple of friends on bsky over my post about Pa’s passing. “Big RIP, Pa. Thanks for reminding me that it’s okay to call people a cunt when they deserve it.” These are people I adore. But these are people who have been in my life when I was not who I am becoming. I am becoming someone I’ve never been before, so I don’t even know where I’ll end up. What I do know is that I’m growing. Every day, I drop one more tie that connects me to the tug that’s trying to haul me back to retraumatization, shame, and hopelessness.
I hope these folks are not ties to that tug, and I highly doubt they are. I just think they didn’t like to see the “c” word on their timeline.
And that’s okay.
It’s alright, baby me. I gotcha now.
And while I’m here, I’ll never forget how my muscles completely relaxed, but my mind kept moving when I heard this one. Gods I love Silversun Pickups.
