Pain Don't Hurt (15 page)

After my shower I came out in a clean pair of underwear and some shorts Shelby had left in the bathroom for me. I wandered out to the couch that was opposite her air mattress and flopped down. She was watching old cartoons and handed me a glass of water. “You need this, believe me.” I finished the entire glass and then went to refill it. By the time I came back she was asleep.

The next morning we all got up and went for breakfast. Josh met us, his black eye much more prominent now. As we sat down and ordered coffee, Shelby turned to me, her blue eyes incredibly bloodshot. “You okay, kid?” I laughed.

“I didn't sleep hardly at all, kept waking up to check on you,” she mumbled.

“Why? I was fine. Once I threw up I was all right.”

“Mark, you're a type one diabetic, your sugars are delicate, you could have experienced a low in the middle of the night. I don't need that to happen.” She had been doing her reading. In fact, that's all she did. Shelby was already in the middle of pursuing a single certification in sports science and strength and conditioning training at the recommendation of Shane and was an avid reader. If she heard about a new condition/product/diet craze she would go read about it until she had read everything there was to read. She had been pulling up multiple articles about type 1 diabetes since we first met. She now knew how utterly irresponsible I really was, and it was frustrating but comforting.

She sat stirring her coffee. This was the last time I was going to have this teammate feel with her. In a day or two we would fly home. I would go back to my giant empty loft downtown and she would go back to her sad apartment in Hollywood, where all her neighbors would either funnel alcohol down her throat or make fun of her for trying to pursue combat sports. It wasn't right. We were a good team.

“Hey, Shelby, I have an idea. . . .”

“Yeah? What is it?” She turned to me, rubbing one eye and yawning.

“My loft is a two-bedroom. It's nearly two thousand square feet, and I have a lot of room. I could train you if you structured meal plans for me, and you wouldn't have to pay anything. It would be a working relationship and—”

“Mark, what are you asking me?” She laughed a little and dropped her chin into her palm.

“I think you should move in with me. I would handle everything, and you could just focus on finishing your certifications. . . .”

And in November of 2009, that's exactly what she did. She brought with her her boatload of furniture, her cooking, and her unbelievable worrying over me. On one hand it was a pain in the ass, because I could no longer slack or misbehave. On the other hand, I started sleeping, and I mean sleeping a minimum of eight hours a night. It was amazing. She earned her first certification within months and set about putting me on a structured diet plan and a strength and conditioning regimen. We worked out of various gyms, bouncing from one to another. I had her to keep me in shape, but I had no skill coach, and I had no fight scheduled. With no money coming in, I was burning through the last of my cash very fast just keeping us alive. I had lied about how capable I was of taking care of both of us financially, but I wasn't about to ask her to go to work, even though she wouldn't have cared, not after I had promised. In retrospect I should have been at least a little forthcoming about the situation and how dire it was getting. I hid it from her; I just didn't want her to worry. She was working so hard, training me and whoever else she could get her hands on, staying in touch with Shane to continue learning from him. . . . I just didn't want her to have to give up, and I was convinced I could get something going before things got too bad.

One night we were doing mitt work in the loft when I heard voices. Shelby paused and ran over to the big old windows. She stuck her head out and started talking. As I approached I saw two heads peeking out from a loft window across the way. They quickly introduced themselves as Adam and Mikee. They were asking what we were up to and wanted to invite us over sometime. They said they had seen us working in the loft before and were really impressed with the hard work they saw. We chatted for a few minutes. Learned that they both were interested in pursuing careers in fashion. Mikee had rugged rock-star-ish looks while Adam, more clean-cut, looked like he could have been an actor. I would learn after spending more time with them that both were quintessentially fashion oriented, and though what they wore looked easy on them, it was also carefully chosen, each piece. Mikee was loving, sweet, took to hugging me and telling me he loved me very soon after we started hanging out with him. Adam was tough, dry witted, cynical, big-brother-like. We shared a love for fashion and art, and over the next few weeks we had many a conversation at nearby cafés about these subjects; then something new came up. Mikee and Adam were both in recovery. They were both sober. Outside of the cigarettes they smoked and the coffee they drank, they abstained from substances. Mikee shared his path, his story; it was as though I was listening to a version of my brother's story, but one where he got out. Mikee had been deep into drugs. He'd seen the underbelly of Los Angeles laid out before him. Yet here he stood, smiling, open, one of the most emotionally raw people I had ever met. Adam's sobriety was newer, fresher, but he still had this raw sort of attitude when talking about himself. They seemed so fearless, so committed to honesty. I felt that I wanted to walk this path. . . . But I wasn't ready.

On Thanksgiving Shelby made a massive turkey, chestnut gravy, mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and a pie. She packaged up leftovers and handed them out to neighbors she called over. When Mikee came to receive his, he offered us both a hug so big it could have cracked us, followed like always with a sincere “I love you guys!”

Christmas came and I decided to go visit my kids. Shelby set up a miniature Christmas tree for when I returned so that the gifts we were going to give each other could stay there until I got back. Pennsylvania was bad for me. Outside of my children, there was nothing there for me but ghosts. The friends I had left tried very hard to keep me preoccupied when I wasn't with my children, to keep me out of the bars. Most of them did anyway. Right when I landed in Pennsylvania I had gone to visit my old doctor. I had been feeling under the weather, and it turned out I had a low-grade respiratory infection. He handed me a bottle full of antibiotics and sent me on my way. After a few days I ended up linking up with one of my tattoo artists. He had decided he wanted to do some work on my ribs while I was in town, but before starting he opened up a bottle of tequila. After a few sips we abandoned the idea of doing any tattooing and just decided to drink. Upon emptying the bottle, I sent Shelby a text. I don't know if it was guilt or what . . . but I needed to send it.

Hi. I'm drinking A LOT

I did not get a positive response.

Oh good for you. And while you're on antibiotics too! You must be so proud of yourself, just stellar behavior for a “professional athlete.”

So I did the only thing a drunk would do. I sent this.

:(

She didn't say anything. I knew she was pissed. At this point I was sitting at a bar in Greensburg with my tattoo artist and a few of his friends. Alcohol wasn't the only thing being passed around. The truth of the matter is, oftentimes when I drank, I didn't just drink. If there was pot available, I smoked pot. Cocaine was a favorite because it allowed me to drink more. I was definitely partaking in one, and possibly both, of the aforementioned “side dishes.” I got up to “use the restroom” and accidentally left my phone. Apparently my tattoo artist saw this as a chance to jump. By the time I returned, the damage was done. I picked my phone up to see a
rant
from Shelby . . . something like this:

Oh sure, no problem. Tell him to have a fucking great time. Tell him to have a blast. Tell him to have a few more drinks and maybe drive home! And tell him that if he ever gives his FRIEND his phone again I'll be more than happy to find a new place to live.

The tattooer sat there looking sheepish.

“What the fuck did you say to her, dude?” I asked. Shelby was not fucking around, and now she was really angry.

“I just told her she shouldn't be so controlling and should just let you have a good time once in a while.” Oh jesusfuck. He had no idea how deep he'd dug me in.

I had drunk brain. I had drug brain. So of course my brain was telling me,
YOU MUST CALL HER. YOU MUST. IF SHE DOESN'T ANSWER RIGHT AWAY THEN YOU MUST KEEP TRYING UNTIL SHE ANSWERS YOU.
So, like a grown-up, I started calling her, obsessively.

I got a single text in return after my fourth or fifth attempt at a phone call. It was very short and went something like this:

I am too angry right now, and if I talk to you and hear that you are smashed I will lose my cool. Please give me about fifteen minutes to cool down and I will return your call then. Thank you.

Oh man, that
thank you
. It was so
cold
. It was the final word. I was instantly ashamed of myself. She was fucking right again. Drunk when I met her. Drunk to the point of puking in Cincinnati, and here I was drunk and out of my mind in a bar in Pennsylvania in winter. We didn't have a sober driver, and the roads were icy. I was playing Russian roulette with my life drinking as a type 1 diabetic anyway. Here I was risking it blatantly in the town that my kids lived in. I was not having fun anymore. I asked to be taken to Amy's house. I still had a key she had given me so I could come and go with the kids when she wasn't there. Her house was close, which meant minimal driving and minimal risk. I wanted to go lie down.

I was dropped off at Amy's door. My self-loathing grew like a heavy coat over my shoulders. I quietly unlocked the door and got myself settled on her couch. I thought about my kids finding me and smelling the alcohol on me like I had smelled it so constantly on my father. I knew Amy was going to be so pissed off. The drugs were wearing off. I sat on the couch, my phone facedown on my lap, and fell into a terrible, accidental drunk sleep.

Around three hours later I awoke with a start. I had only meant to rest, not pass out. My phone was blinking at me. I looked at it to find I had forty-three missed calls and sixty-seven texts. My heart froze. I was so fucked. The calls were mostly from Shelby, but there were calls from local friends, friends in L.A., friends in Cincinnati. The texts were also mostly from Shelby and ranged in flavor from pleading for me to respond just so she could know I was all right, to outright threats that if I didn't respond and she found out I was alive and ignoring her on purpose, she was going to throw my very expensive television out the eighth-story window. I didn't even read through the other texts from a myriad of friends she had called who were begging me to call them or her. . . . I called her right away. She answered immediately.

“
Hello?
” She had been crying, I could hear it. And she was angry.

“Hi, Shelby.” I winced.

“
Fuck you, Mark.
” And she hung up on me.

I called her right back. This time she was a little bit calmer.

“Where the fuck have you been? I have been trying to call you for three hours now. After one, when I didn't hear from you I started threatening you. Then when I didn't hear from you after that, I called hospitals, jails, I called Eamon, Josh. . . .” She trailed off, starting to cry again. “I pictured you dead in a ditch. I can't have that, Mark, and your kids don't deserve to find you reeking of shitty booze in the morning. Amy doesn't deserve you basically breaking and entering in her home just because you drank too fucking much. You can't do this anymore.”

I know, I told her. I know.

Amy was as pissed off as I expected her to be with this. In the morning she angrily took the key from me and told me that I smelled like a disgusting hobo. I showered and brushed my teeth, hoping that my kids wouldn't notice. But I knew. . . .

When I returned to Los Angeles, Shelby sat down by her miniature Christmas tree and, before giving me my gifts, said, “I have to say something to you. I don't think I can handle you drinking anymore—”

I cut her off.

“I can't handle me drinking anymore. I will never fight again if I keep this up, and I know I need help.”

In the next few days I told Mikee and Adam I wanted to go to a meeting. They took me, shaking, frightened, and full of self-loathing, into my first meeting. They held my hands through the prayers and through the introduction. And for the first time in my life I heard myself say out loud that I was an addict and that I needed help, something my brother never could do. Suddenly I felt so much remorse for how hard his life must have been. I met a group of people who were gritty, tough, strong. People who had stories that would make most people's hair stand straight up, and all of them were there, white-knuckling the desire to tune out life, smoking an abundance of cigarettes, drinking gallons of coffee, and supporting each other. Shelby picked me up afterward and asked me how it went. I gave her the only real answer that there was to give.

“I am scared shitless, but at least I know now that I have a chance.”

My Tuesday meeting became a constant. I never shared, but I sat there, quietly, listening. The shitty thing that nobody tells you is that when you first get sober, you get to deal with feelings suddenly. Feelings that you thought you had kept at bay. The worst came when I was walking with Shelby through a department store and suddenly a song came on. A song I connected to my childhood. A song that out of nowhere dredged pristine and tender thoughts up through the black sludge that filled my memory vault. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to Shelby in a panic. “We have to leave.”

“What's wrong, Mark? Are you okay?” She was already quickening her pace to keep up with me as I made for the door. “Mark . . . talk to me.”