Discipline

Conquering my inner bitch on the daily

“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us.”

Steven Pressfield – The War Of Art

I’m just gonna keep it 100 with you guys. You read my shit, I owe that to you.

The only goddamn thing I ever want to do is write. But sometimes? The last goddamn thing on earth I want to do is get in my seat and write. The fuck is that about?

Way back in prehistoric North America, I was in high school. I went to an all-boys military school in the Philadelphia Suburbs. Well, let’s just say my folks thought I needed discipline. So, while my friends back home were going out with their girlfriends, driving cars, partying. I was up at 5 am running, doing endless push-ups, making my bed so you could bounce a quarter off it, shaving, shining shoes, and standing at attention. After all that was done, it was time to start the day. Yeah, I know. If you knew me personally, especially as a kid, you might ask why the hell I didn’t run away.

I gotta say, immediately I took to the disciple. The structure. Awards. Earning rank and moving up the chain of command when you did well. Demerits and physical labor as punishment when you did poorly.

I made the academic honor roll, became captain of the football team, graduated as a Platoon Sergeant and formed bonds with hundreds of brothers who I’m still in touch with today. After graduation I headed out to Western Pennsylvania to play college football with stars in my eyes, a head full of NFL dreams.

I was home in six months.

With no bugle blaring at 5 am, I slept in. With no demerits for missing class, I skipped. With no one screaming in my face telling me to drop and give them 50 push ups, I did none. Also, at this school on any night of the week you could walk into random house after random house and drink your fill of Iron City beer. My alcoholism raged.

And there were girls there…

The discipline I had developed in military school was nowhere to be found. Left to my own devices, I sought simple pleasure, and I paid the price. College dropout, no more football. I found myself back in Philly working days a landscaper and nights bouncing at rock clubs.

As my alcoholism and addiction progressed, this scenario played out over and over as I thrived as a community leader in rehab, only to wind up relapsing as soon as I left. Having my shit squared away in jail, reading, working out, swearing off drugs, only to wind up getting high, committing more crimes and finding myself locked up again.

Today, fortunately I do have a program for life. A 12 step blueprint for how to live and I follow it to the letter. Thank god for that. It manages the addict that lives inside of me. He’s still there, running. Doing push ups. Shadow boxing. Waiting for me to drop my hands so he can clean my clock. Now that I’m sober the world has opened up and I live a life beyond my wildest dreams. Legit.

One of the wildest dreams I ever had was to become a writer. And I did it. And now I’m here. So how do I sustain that and keep it moving while recovery has blessed me with a life like this? I have the most beautiful wife a guy could ask for. I mean, sometimes I have a hard time breathing when she’s near me. I could sit and stare at her non stop all day and consider that a day well spent. How do I find time to write when I have a baby boy that just learned his abc’s and wants to sing them w me? Again, a day well spent would be abc’s on a 24 hour loop. Yoga, weightlifting, metal shows, recovery meetings, sponsees. My life is full to overflowing. I am a truly wealthy man in all things that matter. Oh yeah, I have a full-time job. So there’s that. And I love my work fam.

So the way I figure it, I can sleep or I can be a writer. But I can’t do both.

When the alarm goes off at that ungodly hour (you don’t even wanna know) many days, that kid that slept in back at college wants to roll over pull the covers over my head. Late at night when my family is tucked in bed sleeping I want to do the same. But those are the times I have to myself, and that’s when writing happens. So let’s go to the computer, open up a new document and get cranking…

What’s that? I got an email from my apartment complex? Pet insurance? Goddamnit Rosie, you better start kicking in around here or I’m gonna start charging you rent! Let’s just take a quick peek at the calendar, I need to know what tomorrow looks like so I’m not surprised by anything. Doctors’ appointment? Jesus Jules, why you set so many appointments for me? Oh yeah, I’m old as fuck and I’m literally falling apart. Okay. Real quick, I posted that reel on Instagram earlier, I wonder how many people liked it. Wait, I’m hungry.

You see where this is going? Endless distractions. Endless resistance. Endless excuses not to work. How do I manage this procrastination and get into the flow. I learned discipline as a teenager and I have a blueprint. Why is this resistance, these distractions, the laziness, why is it winning today?

Fear.

Fear of failure. Fear of writing a book that sucks. Fear that everyone will know I’m an imposter. That I don’t belong here. Who the fuck are you Tom? And why should I read this piece of shit? Just stop. Don’t embarrass yourself. You wrote one already, how long are you gonna keep this up? Fear of success. Fear of becoming what I’ve always wanted. Then I would have to think about how much better it would have been if I’d gotten started younger. All that wasted time. Idiot.

Ego.

My ego wants me to go to bed. My ego doesn’t like doing. My ego doesn’t like not doing. Ego doesn’t like anything. And it certainly can’t see the point in doing anything unless I’m the absolute best at it.

“My definition of discipline is doing what you hate to do, but do it like you love it.”

-Mike Tyson

Thanks Mike, you ain’t wrong dude. Thing is? I don’t hate it. It’s all I wanna do.

When I get quiet, when I slow down my thoughts and I have clarity, a simple preference for what seems most charming in life comes over me. What’s most important, what feels best. And for me- it’s the story I’m working on right now.

I believe in some weird shit- Like this story is waiting to be told, and if I don’t do it, somebody else is gonna get the idea. The universe chose me to tell this story. I have a divine purpose, a calling. I owe it to myself, and to that great consciousness that gave me the spark to follow it. And every time I do I get rewarded.

The most alive I’ve ever felt is when I’ve sat down and forced myself to type. When the words are hard to find. When I plod and trudge through a scene, and then, as if by magic, the words fall from my fingers and the page burns and rages with words I didn’t invent. Like setting a radio receiver to the right channel, all I need to do is sit in this goddamn chair for a while and stay tuned in. The broadcast finds me, it uses me to tell it’s story. I am here to serve.

God bless. Namaste. Heavy metal up your ass.