In New England it seems the best medicine is to ignore any and all
medical problems until you’re dying or bleeding – ideally both. And even
a whisper of getting mental help? You’re weak. You’re faking. Tough it out. Be a man.
I would hand-to-god rather die
than have anyone think of me as a ‘cry baby’ or wuss. And aside from a couple of
stitches as a toddler, and a surgery in second grade to put a testicle
lodged somewhere up around my Adam’s apple down where it belongs, I
haven’t spent any time getting urgent medical care. For a while there, ‘tough it out’ was
my middle name.
But my family tree has more people hanging from it via their own hand
than I’d care to count. With an ocean’s worth
of thoughts swirling around in my head, I sought actual help,
and in addition to a John Holmes-sized load being lifted off my chest, I
was given a drug called Lamictal.
It almost killed me.
Lamictal (generic: Lamotrigine) is a drug given to epileptics to control
electrical impulses in the brain that cause seizures. Psychiatrists
also use it to help folks with bi-polar tendencies – Ya know, the
kind of folks who would post non-wrestling related content to a
wrestling blog, then get actively annoyed when people are actively
annoyed with it – sound like anyone you know?
Lamictal can also cause a very severe rash that…well, Google “Stevens-Johnsons Syndrome” and you’ll see what would have been in store for me had I done by Irish Catholic duty and ignored it. One day I woke up from some very, very, strange dreams to find myself covered in a rash, with a fever, flop sweat, and the feeling I was about to have a heart attack as my chest pulsed furiously.
So, like that, I had my first ever stay in an emergency room. A Vietnam Veteran was mandated by hospital rule to push my hefty ass around the hospital in a wheel chair for an X-ray and from test-to-test. I got my first ever IV and was given some kind of medication to combat the reaction to the other medication I wasn’t allowed to stop taking right away because it could result in even worse symptoms – like ‘homicidal thoughts’. The words ‘potentially life threatening’ were used more than once.
The fever and pulses turned to intense itching. Little tiny pin pricks, like bugs crawling on the skin and biting with every single step – so painful and intense my limbs would involuntarily flail and I chipped a tooth after hitting myself in the jaw.
I watched World War Z just to find other human suffering on my level. I went *back* to the emergency room the next day, and they gave me medication to combat the itching. Naturally that medicine did jack, and upon calling a dial-a-nurse and being told BOTH of the medicines I was given take 24-48 hours to take effect, I was about broken – what’s this about homicidal thoughts, again?
This is what I got for attempting to get my head right? This is what I got for going against what my parents thought? This is what I get for trying to feel ‘normal’? There’s nothing they could do? The nurse; “Take a lot of cold showers,”. Thanks.
And then… DDP Yoga. It was not a strong edition of Energy, no. But I flexed on my hulk ups, tucked my butt when DDP said so, and felt every bit the idiot I always did when doing the YRG Warrior Position. On the list of excuses to find your way into an ice cold
shower three times day, clearly this was among the best. By the time I made it through, hopped in the shower, and hopped out..holy shit.
|Same Day – Left: Medication / Right: Yoga-cation|
These photos were taken the same day, one in the morning, and one about four hours later after working out and taking a nice long cold shower. I was a new man. And yes, that is an actual upper arm muscle. I named him Victor Conte. I bumped up to the ‘Fat Burner’ workout, then threw the Red Hot Core mini-workout onto it, feeling just a bit better each and every time.
Now, seven days and…11 workouts after this whole ordeal started, three new medications to take, with about four hundred dollars in medical bills literally putting a price on my mental health…I find myself compelled to write about this whole thing – but unsure of the point.
Why, again, am I here, telling you about DDP Yoga? Why do I give a fuck if you give a fuck? Do you give a fuck? Does posting yet another photo of myself wearing far-too-baggy pants with a dopey “I can’t believe how much less of me there is!” expression on my face help anyone or do any good?
Why am I bothering you with this for the fourth time?
Really. Various vegan and health and Yoga oriented sites were interested in bringing me aboard, as there’s nothing more valuable in the health and fitness industry than someone who used to be fat, but they all regarded me with a little bit of…shade. They disliked my lack of enlightenment, the fact I was skeptical of all things yoga and vegan and health and diet, and told me I couldn’t swear or make wrestling jokes.
It’s almost like…the rest of the world doesn’t take pro wrestling seriously, or something. So, face it Otters, you’re the target demo for this DDP Yoga thing, and whether you want to admit it or not, I’m your fun house mirror. The point is in the pointlessness. Some fucking asshole on a wrestling blog can change his entire damn life via some piddle-shit Yoga? I gotta get me some of that.
If you hate me and think I’m pathetic, think about what you, a clearly more talented and better put together person than I, could accomplish via this whole Yoga thing. You’d probably show me right the fuck up and be doing head stands in two weeks.
If you’re portly and simply lack the hutzpah to get started, perhaps this four part series has given you just enough kick to get the program and start the work outs. If you’re in fantastic shape and look down on people who have trashed their bodies with fatty foods and an excess of sodium, you’ll see there hope yet for the great unwashed and over-marinated masses.
And if you’re me, well, it’s all I got. I love games and wrestling and movies as much as always, but that desire to write about them, that passionate fire to shout from the roof tops about the best and worst and the ones worth watching…has dulled. The simple fact that I can bend down on one leg and balance like some
sort of paraplegic airplane with my arms outstretched, while sick with a
potentially life-threatening rash, signals to me that the possibilities are endless – I don’t need to be a ‘critic’ any more than I ‘need’ to listen to well-meaning friends who find it in their heart to tell me eventually “I’ll want to move on to something a little more difficult than…ha..Yoga,”.
The shoulds and woulds and musts are secondary. The future is ahead of me and all doors appear open. I’m not lying when I say my number one goal in life at the moment is to head up to New Hampshire and show ‘The Tomahawk” a ride I got kicked off of for being too fat a year ago, just who’s boss. I may still have a question or six or seven for my shrink, but hey, is Yoga and my own mental resolve can pull through this ordeal, the sky’s the limit.
Maybe I’ll review WCW Thunder or something.
MeekinOnMovies On…DDP Yoga Part 1: Impressions
MeekinOnMovies On…DDP Yoga Part 2: Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff
MeekinOnMovies On…DDP Yoga Part 3