Post by Rick Majors on Oct 2, 2016 23:45:58 GMT -5
I sat down in the bath and immediately questioned this entire thing. What the hell was I doing taking a bath anyway? This isn’t me. In fact, this is disgusting. It’s sitting in your own dirt and grime. Just sitting there and having it all float around you. And this was somehow supposed to make me feel better? It was uncomfortably hot. I feel like a lobster. Or an ingredient in a soup.
But this is what the doctors suggested.
I have a lot of nagging injuries: my neck, my back, my knees. Basically any joint you can name, it hurts. I’ve already had enough surgeries. I don’t want anymore. So, instead, I’m in a bath. Maybe I should have just had surgery instead. At least I understand surgery. I’m used to surgery.
All I could think about was what a waste of time this is. I’ve never been the type of person that is able to sit still with my thoughts for any period of time. I never wanted to. You put me somewhere with no distractions for long enough and my mind ends up in negative places. The rise of smart phones has been a huge blessing for me. I never have to think a thought anymore. I can always have music or YouTube or some random website to distract me 24/7. These constant distractions probably aren’t the best way to live life, but they keep me living.
But now my phone was in the bedroom. And I was in this hot, gross bath. Alone.
When you reach my age, you fully know what your comfort zone is and you are perfectly happy to stay within it. This is not within my comfort zone.
All I could see were white tiles and a shower curtain that was slowly becoming home to a pretty good sized colony of mold and mildew. I hate this bathroom. In my old house – our old house – where I used to live with Kelly, we had a beautiful bathroom. She decorated it and it was perfect. When they talk about “turning your bathroom into a relaxing spa getaway” on HGTV, they’re talking about places like that bathroom.
That all seems like a lifetime ago. We sold that house when we got divorced. I sold our condo a while later. I tried living there, but I couldn’t spend my life in a place haunted by her presence.
So now here I am, in some kind of average rental in Toronto. I was one of the biggest professional wrestlers in the world about a decade ago, and now I’m renting a one-bedroom condo in an “up and coming” neighbourhood downtown. I guess that’s what happens when you get divorced and blow your savings on alcohol, drugs, rehab, and wrestling gear.
A drink would be really good right now. But I haven’t had one since February 9th and I’m not about to start up again now. Abstaining from drugs and alcohol is the only positive thing I have going for me at the moment.
This is so painfully boring. “Distract yourself, Rick,” I desperately thought. “Distract yourself.”
I looked around for anything to take my attention. Hmm… the shower head has 36 individual nozzles on it. Interesting. Two of the tiles in here are chipped. Fascinating. Ivory soap, eh? I don’t remember buying that. Maybe it was a free sample.
And then my eyes focused in on my razor. Gillette Fusion. Five blades. A moisturizing strip. And a flexible comfort guard. Even with all of the flashy features, you could probably slice your wrist open with it if you really applied yourself.
That’s how sad housewives with cheating husbands and online shopping debt take themselves out, right? Slice your wrists in the bath and then gently drift away, accompanied by a glass of wine and Michael Bublé’s greatest hits? But, alas, no wine. And only a few Michael Bublé songs on my phone.
I guess I’ll have to keep living. I’ve read that carbon monoxide poisoning is painless. Maybe I’ll try that next week.
“Snap out of it, Rick! You’re not killing yourself in the bath or in your car!”
The conversations that I have with myself in my own head are typically depressing, but sometimes they’re inspirational. Often both.
“Get rid of it.”
It was the only way to stop this particular thought pattern from persisting any longer. I picked up the razor. But I hesitated. The blades looked nice and sharp. I just changed the cartridge yesterday. The water glistened on them and dripped off as I turned the razor over. It was mesmerizing. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood would drip the same way. It would hit the water and the deep crimson would turn the bath into a pale pink. And then, eventually, it would all be red. Deep, dark red. There would be beauty in it really.
No.
I threw the razor away as hard as I could. I didn’t watch it land, but I heard it thud against the door and then clink onto the tiled floor. It was away from me. For now.
That felt like one of those moments. You know the ones. Those moments where a small thing changes the course of your life in a drastic way. Like when you rush to catch a subway as the doors are closing and end up meeting the person you’re going to marry. Or when you cancel your flight at the last minute and then watch the news as that exact plane disappears over the ocean. Or if I’d been at home when Kelly took that drive.
I could have gone to the store instead. Or convinced her we didn’t need milk. Or told her it was dark and that she could go tomorrow and suggested we watch a movie on the couch instead. Or I could have stopped her on the way out and asked her to buy bread too. Or told her that I love her.
If any of those things had happened, she wouldn’t have been driving through that intersection at the exact moment the drunk driver in the pickup truck barreled through. She wouldn’t have spent a year in the hospital. I wouldn’t have gone back to wrestling to search for acceptance and distraction. I would have stayed retired and they might still be married. We might have even had a couple of kids. I’d be sitting with her right now, enjoying her company, listening to her laugh, watching her smile, and not soaking my beaten body in a tepid pool of my own filth.
But that didn’t happen.
Another such situation? Deadly Intentions 3. The 2012 Deadly Rumble. My first match in PCW. The final two participants in that match were myself and Grimm. And I tossed Grimm over the top rope. Grimm. The might Grimm. I threw him out of the match. But I didn’t watch him fall. I let myself get caught up in the moment. I rushed to the center of the ring. I raised my arms in the air. I climbed the turnbuckles in celebration. I was hit in the back and tossed out of the match. Only one of Grimm’s feet had touched the floor.
It was a rookie mistake, but I was no rookie. Sure, it was my PCW debut, but I’d wrestled all around the world for many, many years. It was just stupid. For just a few seconds, I let myself get swept up in the moment. I let myself be happy. And I paid for it.
Grimm has gone on to be one of the most successful and most feared PCW stars of all time. I have gone on to lose and fail and lose and fail and lose and fail again. What if I had noticed Grimm holding onto the ropes? What if I had given him another kick, instead of turning my back to him like an idiot? I would have earned myself a PCW World Title shot. If I had won that belt, I might not have sunk as deeply into depression as I did. Kelly may not have left me. Again, I might be sitting with her right now, enjoying her company, listening to her laugh, and watching her smile.
That was 2012. This is 2016. And it’s time to right a wrong.
The time is now. It must be done. And I’m going to do it.
I’m going to get out of this bath. This was a terrible idea.
But this is what the doctors suggested.
I have a lot of nagging injuries: my neck, my back, my knees. Basically any joint you can name, it hurts. I’ve already had enough surgeries. I don’t want anymore. So, instead, I’m in a bath. Maybe I should have just had surgery instead. At least I understand surgery. I’m used to surgery.
All I could think about was what a waste of time this is. I’ve never been the type of person that is able to sit still with my thoughts for any period of time. I never wanted to. You put me somewhere with no distractions for long enough and my mind ends up in negative places. The rise of smart phones has been a huge blessing for me. I never have to think a thought anymore. I can always have music or YouTube or some random website to distract me 24/7. These constant distractions probably aren’t the best way to live life, but they keep me living.
But now my phone was in the bedroom. And I was in this hot, gross bath. Alone.
When you reach my age, you fully know what your comfort zone is and you are perfectly happy to stay within it. This is not within my comfort zone.
All I could see were white tiles and a shower curtain that was slowly becoming home to a pretty good sized colony of mold and mildew. I hate this bathroom. In my old house – our old house – where I used to live with Kelly, we had a beautiful bathroom. She decorated it and it was perfect. When they talk about “turning your bathroom into a relaxing spa getaway” on HGTV, they’re talking about places like that bathroom.
That all seems like a lifetime ago. We sold that house when we got divorced. I sold our condo a while later. I tried living there, but I couldn’t spend my life in a place haunted by her presence.
So now here I am, in some kind of average rental in Toronto. I was one of the biggest professional wrestlers in the world about a decade ago, and now I’m renting a one-bedroom condo in an “up and coming” neighbourhood downtown. I guess that’s what happens when you get divorced and blow your savings on alcohol, drugs, rehab, and wrestling gear.
A drink would be really good right now. But I haven’t had one since February 9th and I’m not about to start up again now. Abstaining from drugs and alcohol is the only positive thing I have going for me at the moment.
This is so painfully boring. “Distract yourself, Rick,” I desperately thought. “Distract yourself.”
I looked around for anything to take my attention. Hmm… the shower head has 36 individual nozzles on it. Interesting. Two of the tiles in here are chipped. Fascinating. Ivory soap, eh? I don’t remember buying that. Maybe it was a free sample.
And then my eyes focused in on my razor. Gillette Fusion. Five blades. A moisturizing strip. And a flexible comfort guard. Even with all of the flashy features, you could probably slice your wrist open with it if you really applied yourself.
That’s how sad housewives with cheating husbands and online shopping debt take themselves out, right? Slice your wrists in the bath and then gently drift away, accompanied by a glass of wine and Michael Bublé’s greatest hits? But, alas, no wine. And only a few Michael Bublé songs on my phone.
I guess I’ll have to keep living. I’ve read that carbon monoxide poisoning is painless. Maybe I’ll try that next week.
“Snap out of it, Rick! You’re not killing yourself in the bath or in your car!”
The conversations that I have with myself in my own head are typically depressing, but sometimes they’re inspirational. Often both.
“Get rid of it.”
It was the only way to stop this particular thought pattern from persisting any longer. I picked up the razor. But I hesitated. The blades looked nice and sharp. I just changed the cartridge yesterday. The water glistened on them and dripped off as I turned the razor over. It was mesmerizing. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood would drip the same way. It would hit the water and the deep crimson would turn the bath into a pale pink. And then, eventually, it would all be red. Deep, dark red. There would be beauty in it really.
No.
I threw the razor away as hard as I could. I didn’t watch it land, but I heard it thud against the door and then clink onto the tiled floor. It was away from me. For now.
That felt like one of those moments. You know the ones. Those moments where a small thing changes the course of your life in a drastic way. Like when you rush to catch a subway as the doors are closing and end up meeting the person you’re going to marry. Or when you cancel your flight at the last minute and then watch the news as that exact plane disappears over the ocean. Or if I’d been at home when Kelly took that drive.
I could have gone to the store instead. Or convinced her we didn’t need milk. Or told her it was dark and that she could go tomorrow and suggested we watch a movie on the couch instead. Or I could have stopped her on the way out and asked her to buy bread too. Or told her that I love her.
If any of those things had happened, she wouldn’t have been driving through that intersection at the exact moment the drunk driver in the pickup truck barreled through. She wouldn’t have spent a year in the hospital. I wouldn’t have gone back to wrestling to search for acceptance and distraction. I would have stayed retired and they might still be married. We might have even had a couple of kids. I’d be sitting with her right now, enjoying her company, listening to her laugh, watching her smile, and not soaking my beaten body in a tepid pool of my own filth.
But that didn’t happen.
Another such situation? Deadly Intentions 3. The 2012 Deadly Rumble. My first match in PCW. The final two participants in that match were myself and Grimm. And I tossed Grimm over the top rope. Grimm. The might Grimm. I threw him out of the match. But I didn’t watch him fall. I let myself get caught up in the moment. I rushed to the center of the ring. I raised my arms in the air. I climbed the turnbuckles in celebration. I was hit in the back and tossed out of the match. Only one of Grimm’s feet had touched the floor.
It was a rookie mistake, but I was no rookie. Sure, it was my PCW debut, but I’d wrestled all around the world for many, many years. It was just stupid. For just a few seconds, I let myself get swept up in the moment. I let myself be happy. And I paid for it.
Grimm has gone on to be one of the most successful and most feared PCW stars of all time. I have gone on to lose and fail and lose and fail and lose and fail again. What if I had noticed Grimm holding onto the ropes? What if I had given him another kick, instead of turning my back to him like an idiot? I would have earned myself a PCW World Title shot. If I had won that belt, I might not have sunk as deeply into depression as I did. Kelly may not have left me. Again, I might be sitting with her right now, enjoying her company, listening to her laugh, and watching her smile.
That was 2012. This is 2016. And it’s time to right a wrong.
The time is now. It must be done. And I’m going to do it.
I’m going to get out of this bath. This was a terrible idea.
