Tag: jounraling

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Precariously Positive with Patient Practice

I think it’s high time for another un-earthing of old journal entries.

Last week at November Project was the week of wonder. 5 days, 5 workouts, 1 badass group of people doing work every morning. How fitting that the middle of the week gave us an opportunity to throw-down our toughest workout in the early morning summer sun. ‘The Messenger,’ as it’s called, is exactly one half-hour of running up, and down, the deceivingly treacherous hill at Gold Medal Park. Up and down thirty times – your rest period dependent only on how fast you can get up and down to the other side. It’s not terribly difficult to understand how one might be making this face during the fourth iteration, knowing you got a long 26 minutes to go:

When I run now, I embody just about everything I hated about runners when I was in high school. Could these guys look any more ridiculous with 1” inseam shorts? What the fuck is the point of a hat if you’re just going to wear it backwards? Could you possibly show anymore skin? And yeah, we get it, you run. Does every shirt you own have to have one iteration or another of the word ‘run’ on it? The answer to all of those questions, of course, is swag. Yes – Ryan Duff wears swag and he wants you to know about it. And if you’ve never run in high inseams, a running tank, and a backwards cap, then have you ever actually been running?

But it’s not all bad. It’s not just suffering. It would be kind of pointless if there was no means justifying the end, right? And for myself, well I don’t even need to wait that long. In the heart of all these workouts, it’s everything I can do not to exude every ounce of leftover energy from the previous repeat by heaping on encouragement to everyone else coming down the hill.

I often fail.

So much so, that for the second time since my induction into November Project I was bestowed the Positivity Award. Sometimes in this life, it does pay to be an obnoxiously enthusiastic asshole. I’ll take what I can get. Represented by a miniature bat etched with the group name and the tribe’s city, being a recipient of the award allows me to reflect on what my relationship with positivity is, and how that’s changed over the years.

I am not a photogenic person. I’m not able to take myself serious, and as evidenced in the previous picture even when I’m not posing for a picture, my already limited aesthetic value plummets with physical exertion. I embrace it though. I’m what some people call ‘extra’. I call do it what makes me happy. ‘Extra’ happy, even.

One way that that is made easier is by having a journal to reflect back on – and compare the content of my writing then (a terrible place mentally/emotionally/spiritually) to now (a work in progress, but MUCH better). I am not naturally a ‘positive’ person. At least not internally. External manifestation of this is reclusion and isolation. A feeling of wanting to be alone. This is a pretty natural state for someone who would be considered an ‘introvert,’ but when that label becomes a crutch to cling to bad, ingrained habits, well, the results speak for themselves. I spiraled into my own proverbial well of self-loathing and pity, enamoring myself in my own sorrow until I convinced myself that solitude and melancholy were just fundamental attributes of my personality. Unchanging, and destined to the defining characteristics of my soul until the passing of my physical presence in this world.

Pretty fucking grim, yeah?

Well, believe it or not, that’s where my headspace was not long ago! And look, I can prove it! Read on for some insight into the most authentic, only slightly abridged (out of respect for peeps’ privacy) details of my thought process from that time. Below are small excerpts of a few journal entries I’ve selected that should give some insight into just how, well, not positive it all was for me. This one comes from a journal entry the day after a night I shared with one of my best friends. Names are changed, some omissions made for clarity (but the content is unchanged/unedited!), and I bolded some text for emphasis:

Tuesday August 17th, 2015

Anna came over and we watched movies and talked literally until I could not keep my eyes open anymore. I’m not sure I have met somebody else who shares almost exactly the same sentiments toward their father as I do my mother…I know I haven’t had that kind of meaningful interaction with another person in a long time. Probably (rather, definitely) any other guy in my situation would have come to the conclusion that they are attracted to and interested in dating (or with most men I know/hear about, fucking) her. Whether it is because I am stubborn in keeping my word or because I’m determined to fulfill this vision of myself as a ‘loner,’ or because I’m truly not interested, I won’t be in a romantic relationship with Anna…I don’t think of myself as attractive and would be horrified to think of people seeing me not fully clothed, due to sheer embarrassment…I can’t imagine having to divulge the inner workings of my mind to another person again. And above all of the reasons I have already given there is something inside that pushes me to isolation so strongly that I am most happiest in seclusion. Perhaps it was the two years that I lived in solitude at the U that has made me so terrified about what other people think?

And then just a few days later:

Thursday August 20th, 2015

…It’s interesting that many of the new people I have met from work think of me as someone who has got it all figured out. I truly don’t myself as any more than a below average person who can’t find the discipline to succeed. I am absolutely baffled at how much other people can stay organized and happy, how others can make things happen for themselves. How they can find what really motivates them. I miss the confidence I had in myself, and would frankly give just about anything to have it back.

OO! And this encapsulating snippet right here:

Tuesday November 11th, 2015

…as I have stated many times, it is not a life I’m destined for. Solitude is the end-game for me, no doubt.

Alright, last one. This comes from an entry in which I was pushing myself to write stuff I hadn’t yet had the courage to put to paper. It comes from a conversation I had with a friend in which I came home feeling guilty that I was still holding onto intimate parts of my life when my friend was willing to share so much with me. I even lied to their face when they asked me straight up ‘Did you have an eating disorder?’ I plainly said no. Unconcerned with how terribly I lied. I was so afraid of myself that it was just enough to turn the conversation in another direction. But I managed to work the courage to spit out on paper, and now, 2 years later, I’m here to share it with you. It gets a little dark – bear with me:

But here is a list of things I have divulged to almost no one (and some things that have never been divulged)…we’ll start with me. No, Anna, I have not been fortunate enough to escape the clutches of eating disorder. Not anorexia, but disordered and binge-eating, you betcha. Suicidal ideation: You know I hadn’t really even thought of it as an issue at all, or even as a terribly sad thing, until recently. I imagined it all of the time actually, but in my childhood it was more me not getting the love of my life, or playing a martyr, or something. Now it has grown up a little and I see it more as an actual means to an end, especially since the binge-eating.

Time, effort, and practice are excellent modalities for change. And I mean BIG change. As I paged through entries of my old journal looking for the snippets that I could use to contrast my headspace now to then, I was honestly amazed at how much negativity I carried with me. I regret not writing and journaling more during those years in college where things were bad, just so I would have an even better understanding of how low things had gotten. To the point of giving credence to thoughts of self-harm? Maybe I would have put down on paper the times when I bounced a knife up and down on my forearm, just imagining how easy it would be to press down a little bit harder. And contemplating suicide? For me, well, that’s pretty fucking far down the hole. But just like physical training, and studying and learning, that journey from self-hate to self-love takes practice. It takes effort. It takes patience. It takes time. I talk about some of those things more in my best friend’s podcast – I encourage you to listen to it. Take a break from reading this (and thank you so fucking much for making it this far – I truly appreciate it) and put this podcast on 1.5x speed. I think you’ll learn a little!

Okay, where are we at? Positivity – yeah. Alright, let’s end this with two things. Firstly, I want to give you an example of what my journal entries look like now. I assure you that thoughts of self-harm and suicide are in the past. Let’s take a look! This comes from the end of the first week of 2018. The week following my epic 50 mile run, my return to NP, to Mill City, and the start of second semester of grad school. Names are different, content’s the same, bolded text for emphasis. Let’s take a look at what practicing mindfulness for a few years did for me:

Sunday January 7th, 2018

Let’s maybe put this week into perspective (not just write a bunch of fucking events). I have been more honest, open, and insightful than I have in my entire life combined. I have told people things I at one point thought I never would, or could. I talked with Beth about how terrified I was when I thought I was never going to give up binging. And maybe 2 months ago, that would have simply been impossible to mention…I surround myself with those I can confide in- those who take a true interest in my life. Those who love life, and the people in it, and love to laugh and share positive experiences. They love to learn, grow, and connect. Not complain, stagnate, and isolate…I love life again. I let myself give and receive intimacy…I’m allowing myself to be vulnerable, but feeling absolutely free, strong, and empowered every time I share my story. I’m admitting all of my faults, and maintaining humility on the (few, if any) proudful accomplishments in my life. I continue to grow stronger everyday – physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. Freeing myself of that disgusting, consuming habit is the single greast, defining moment of my life so far. I’ll use it to spread as much love and knowledge as possible. ‘Til next time!

I think you’ll notice a difference in tone. And it’s not exclusive to this entry. I’m not going to tell you that everyday of my life is some cherry-blossom, bed-of-roses, self-loving, fairy-tale. I am a person like any other – I still struggle with my body-confidence. And my self-confidence. I receive compliments about as well as I can swim (I could drown in a kitty pool). I’m not an enlightened individual by any means. But I practice being positive. Not just to others, but to myself too (although the former is wickedly easier for me). But that’s why they call it practice. I had to do some dirty, internal work. And I continue to have to do to that. I have to meditate. I have to sit with those nasty, hateful thoughts, and learn to be comfortable being uncomfortable. And I have to embrace the positive aspects of who I am more tightly when I recognize them. But like I said, the results speak for themselves. What you’ve read in this post is the contrast between what it’s like to be a slave to self-deprecation, and what it’s like to be fighting for self-gratitude.

Those are my thoughts on positivity. Hopefully I’ve elucidated that it’s not some magical millennial buzzword that hipsters throw around when they’re getting stoned. It’s a real damn thing that really damn changes how you think, feel, and act. Get out there and get some for yourself.

November Project – MSP asked peeps to fill out a questionnaire if they wanted to be showcased on the IG and FB page. Of course I filled one out. One thing they also do is take a picture off your profile page they can use to headline their showcase of you. This is the one they found. This is just before my first marathon in 2012. I don’t know if there is another picture of me that embodies the confidence I strive for every day. Them are curly locks of empowerment, I assure you.
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A Link to the Past

The post you’re about to read are the ones I’m most looking forward to sharing. Just writing (typing) that is monumental for me. There was a time I would never have thought about going public with any of this. These posts are old journal entries from a notebook I have been writing my thoughts and musings in for the last five and a half years. These posts will be unedited and reprinted in their entirety (I removed last names of peeps for privacy). My hope is to give you a glimpse into how this completely haphazard yet still ostensibly functional organ inside my skull once was, and what I’ve learned (albeit with that same fucked up brain) from that tumultuous past.  It’s not a big notebook, however, which is unfortunate it’s taken me this long to complete it. For the sake of avoiding making this post an impressive wall of text, I’ve included pictures. Yes. Pictures of a plain black notebook. Just read on.

I love the cover of this notebook. Two things that evoke truth more than anything are writing and running. I’m trying to get better at both.

I was given my notebook, along with some other goodies, after completing the Twin Cities Marathon in 2012. Something about the ‘middle of the pack’ award where they gave me a duffel bag that had that notebook, a (signed!) copy of Ultramarathon Man by the legendary Dean Karnazes, a $25 gift card, and a bunch of snacks and Clif bars. Needless to say I was elated. Ask anyone who knows me how much I love free stuff (or stuff that I make free…it’s really all about perspective. I’m not a thief). Anyway – that gift card and those snacks were gone quickly. The book was less easy to devour – and honestly I didn’t believe this guy. People don’t run 100’s of miles at a time. That’s impossible! Well, just a few years later and I’m one of those so-called ultramarathoners. You can read about that cold adventure here. Someday I’ll make it out to a race like Leadville or Western States. So many inspiring athletes out there suffering though unimaginable conditions. Anyway! That’s another post altogether.

It’s amazing to me that this notebook has remained in my possession for as long as it has. It’s somehow free of coffee spills and ketchup stains. The same cannot be said of quite literally anything else I own.

Let’s get to it. This entry comes a few days after Christmas four years ago. Two of the most spectacular women alive that I’m fortunate enough to call my friends came to visit me during the coldest winter I can remember. We went to Phantom of the Opera, and as you’ll see, I had some pretty intense feelings that surfaced as a result of having had the opportunity to spend time with, and shortly after say goodbye to, my best friends. Read on. If you’re feeling good, stick around while I go full-throttle Freud on myself.

It is unblevelable how sad I get having to say goodbye to friends when they leave. I believe it is something I have felt my entire life but I haven’t actually realized it to this extent. Last night, Hallie, Mollie, Hallie’s younger sister and I went to Phantom of the Opera. Poor Hallie’s dog got sick yesterday though and she got a call saying that the dog would probably not survive. Poor kid. Anyway, it was fun, and I shouldn’t have anything to be upset over. But right after they left I was literally almost in tears. It’s like I am always holding out for some moment of catharsis, where we just sit and reminisce and talk for hours like I used to do with those who I have been close with. I miss having a best friend. I feel as though I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with someone for 3 fucking years. I haven’t made a new friend since I was in high school and have only lost them since. That used to not bother me. In fact I was almost “proud” of it, in a way. Now I feel so bored and isolated I barely want to hang out with Abe or Eric, or even Rebekah. And why would they enjoy being around me? My interests have largely faded – there are not a lot of things I really enjoy doing. What areas of interests do I share with other people? Nobody really wants to get up and run with me. Nobody wants to talk about Italian shit with me, or video games, or Chipotle. How many other people my age envision a good time as sitting around and shooting the shit, or going to a show? Everybody wants to party. I DON’T. It’s not fucking fun for me. I take no pleasure in meeting new people. I know who I like already, and I love those people to death. Talking to other people isn’t the same and I just want my old friends back. It’s funny – I remember before leaving for college all I wanted was to get out and make new friends. Then I realized how uninterested I was in other people. Given the choice between meeting new people or being by myself, I pick the latter every time. And nothing excites me more than just being around people I love – and just talking. It’s why I was always would be on the phone with Hallie until she would literally hang up on me. And why I have sat at Rebekah’s house until 6 or 7am, until I could hardly stand I was so tired. And why I would spent almost every free hour of my life senior year with Zoe B. It’s even why I would spend so much time hanging out with people like Kevin in Junior High or Brandon or Abe in high school (albeit to a much lesser extent). I loved (and still do) just hanging around. But I’m smart enough to know it’s not normal and its certainly not what other people want from me. Nobody wants to be my friend that much, or in that way. Most people (everybody but me) enjoys the company of many. I am the only person I know who is by far the happiest when I can be with on other person. For some reason it generally works better with women. I would give just about anything to be as good of friends with Hallie, or Zoe, or Hailey as I used to be. I can’t lie when I say they were the most memorable times of my life. And I feel as though I will never have these kinds of friendships again in my life. And it has nothing to do with physical intimacy. In fact I would do just about anything to throw all of those where things got physical – from the sex right down to every kiss. It only ruined all of these friendships. It turned all of those relationships to shit. I feel like so much has happened in two years and I have absolutely no one to trust with it anymore. My mom has a heart attack – and the only person I tell is Zoe well after we stopped dating. My mom threatens suicide and sends me a “good-bye” message – the only person I got to tell that is myself, twice in this fucking notebook. But what can I do? I don’t know how to make friends. I’d rather just have my old ones back.

Okay. You still there? Awesome! You made it. PHEW. There was a lot of shit in there. That was even difficult for me to transcribe. And I wrote it! So what do we take from this? What insight can you or I glean from this rather old stream of immature consciousness? Firstly, I promise I’m not that despondent anymore. Like holy shit 21 year-old Duff, have you ever heard of Xanax? Second, there is a lot that needs to be said about isolation. Third, (just know you are reading this almost as directly as it’s coming from my mind) there is even more to be said about limitations.

Let’s talk about isolation. Something I’ve grown to learn that I feel is truer every time I’m reminded of it is that, (purposefully) barring any 3rd party intervention, I can convince myself of any negative emotion running through my mind. I’ve obviously learned a lot about the power of being an observer of thoughts though meditation, but when it comes to those nasty self-deprecating habituated thought patterns, reflecting on them with trusted friends is crucial. It’s easy to see how isolation led me to believe that ‘only I feel this way,’ and ‘everybody else is like this,’ and all the other snippets you can pluck from the passage. As paradoxical as it seems, one of the things that keeps me grounded and confident (relatively) is knowing that I’m really not special. I’m not the only person in the world who misses their old friends. I’m not the only person who finds it hard to make friends. And I’m definitely not the only person in the world who likes to run in the morning (read about it here and here). Nor am I the only person who likes video games, Chipotle, medicine, food, sports, and all the other things other normal people like. But it wouldn’t be too difficult for me to believe I was if I did exactly what I did – shut myself in, be too stubborn and scared to make friends, and not have the gumption to connect with old ones more often. Just reading this makes me wanna go back in time and slap the living hell out of me and say “YOU’RE NOT THAT COOL CALL A FRIEND, DUMBASS!” Because, in reality, it’s not cool, or tough, or a measure of fortitude to feel you’re unique in how lonely you are. There was no reason I had to be – or feel that I was. Which brings us to the last point.

There are things I am limited from doing. I will never dunk a basketball. I have no desire and even less ability. I will also never understand why people watch NASCAR, or why at concerts the instruments are so loud you can’t actually understand the words people are singing. What I am not limited from doing is changing my mindset. Reading this post, I was never actually prevented from being closer to any of the aforementioned folks. I was never actually inhibited from forging new friendships or figuring out a way to enjoy life in my current circumstance. Those were entirely constructs that I had created. I was not being held hostage in my apartment every weekend. I wasn’t limited to access for help from friends, and family. I convinced myself that those were denied to me. I was so unable to recognize that being sad was completely normal, and there were very normal, human remedies for it. Please, if you’re reading this, know that I haven’t had a stream of thoughts this negative in months. Maybe for the better part of a year. Recovery, real, true recovery, is a beautiful thing (read about it here). Any affliction of thought is curable by real action, and I can take any instance in the above passage and can say with some certainty in how I would go about resolving the conflict exemplified. Most would involve calling a friend, watching a move, or just being present and aware of those thoughts and letting them go.

Now you might be asking, ‘Ryan, what was that about your mom, and your old high school friends, and women, and –’ don’t worry. There is a lot left in this notebook that we’ll get to. And believe me, I’m learning as much about me as you are. Alas, I only have so much learning I can cram at a time. Graduate school has excavated that well of knowledge capacity greatly, but for this entry, it’s tapped out. Thank you for joining me on this first un-buried post! I’m having fun – hopefully you are too!