The Body Keeps the Score of My Schedule
Movement has become central to my life. I’m always working toward the discipline it takes to keep my body functioning at its best, and I don’t always succeed, especially when everything else demands me at once. Running a business. Drawing every night of tattoo weeks. Emails. Marathon tattoo sessions. On art weeks I disappear into flow for days at a time. Afterward, my body sends the invoice: tight muscles, paralyzing exhaustion, scattered focus, and then the quiet sense of defeat that curdles into something close to depression.
I know the fix. Build a schedule that lets me wake up and meditate, stretch, cook a real meal, take the walk, and bathe, none of it rushed. Instead, when I’m busy I eat like I’m starving, one hand on my food and the other on my phone, answering messages and scrolling channels that rattle my sense of life and productivity.
Living is a lot for nearly everyone. I spent years as a single mother learning a new career, and I think that when you live in overwhelm long enough, you start swapping one burden for another just to keep the familiar feeling. Because I know what I’m capable of, I can guilt myself for not doing “enough” and struggle to let stillness be peaceful. For years I’ve lived as if time were running out. There is so much I want to do while I can, and so much to make while I’m able. Downtime is a gift, yet I often use it as leverage to push myself further. We measure our worth in productivity, and we chase it like a dragon.
I’m no expert at most things, but I try to do my best at all of them, and being my own judge is rough. I’ve always been hard on myself; my friends and family have told me so.
This morning, though, I made it to the gym and into the racquetball court. I love the game, though I don’t know the rules, and I play alone: just me, a ball, and a wall. People have knocked on the door to invite me to play, and I always decline. I tell them I’m working things out in my head in there, and it’s true.
When I started, I was a mess, constantly stopping to pick up the ball. With time and many adjustments, I can now sustain a volley, alternating backhand and forehand and aiming for the center of the wall. I used to take pre-workout and smoke weed beforehand. Unsurprisingly, I was unfocused and anxious all day. Now I play with headphones on, and the soundtrack has ranged from ambient to punk to podcasts, but hypnotic techno is the one that carries me. I love to be entranced. Let me know if you’d like to try out one of my playlists and I’ll share one with you.
Racquetball has become a philosophy for me. Strictly speaking, I may not even be playing, but I’m in the room, using the tools, doing the thing. In my mind I’m a samurai in training, sword fighting in an open field. Alter egos are my thing; they make everything more interesting. I watch the ball without staring at it, learning to sense where it is, where it’s going, and how best to meet it. Sometimes I’m chasing a lost ball while preparing for the next one, and that’s the real challenge. I’ve accepted that you can’t save them all. The wild ones teach you faster, and the steady ones show you what you’re doing right. When I get frustrated, or my thoughts drift from the moment, I return to the rebound.
It isn’t perfect. When someone stretches on the bars behind the glass, I feel watched, judged for my folly. But when I’m lost in the act itself, free of all that, I find consistency, release, and joy. Man, that head of mine.
Now, heading into art weeks, I’m looking back on the past two tattoo weeks and critiquing my work outside the profession. I’ve built unfuckwithable practices to keep my body ready for the contortions, the long hours, and the rest between. I can’t live on protein shakes, bars, and snacks. Even with a solid menu of daily rituals, I can still see where I slip, and tightening my game brings those slips into the light.
My late friend used to say, “Ich will das, was mir passiert.” I want what happens to me. Owning the mess you’ve made of your own life is a grand lesson indeed.
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