Healing of duality.
It was near the end of summer in 2022. I’d just finished up an early morning meeting away from my office and was heading back to it. At the time, I’d been practicing getting out of bed earlier and getting to work at better times. Late nights spent arguing with an abusive ex had left me in the practice of crawling out of bed on less than three hours of sleep and arriving to work twenty minutes late long after the breakup. I’d picked up a morning Starbucks route which helped a lot with having an immediate objective, but I’d overslept that morning and had just enough time to get to work un-caffeinated.
A specialty café was conveniently along the way back. That particular one had been the talk of the town for years and many spoke of it in absolute reverence of its quality. I decided it was time to see what all the hype was about and more importantly treat myself for the back-breaking labor I’d done that morning (I sat in a waiting room for maybe twenty minutes helping a client. Insufferably difficult stuff, trust me.)
I parked my car and took a step in. Instead of the corporate, copy-and-paste grey and green of Starbucks, I was greeted with a warm, cozy palette of white and brown. There was a calm line of people and the mature aroma of coffee. The checkout was a couple of feet away from where orders were taken. Suddenly it was my time to order and I just about froze. I felt out of place and had no idea where to start. The gentle barista asked if I needed a minute and after a moment of perusing the menu, I asked for an iced latte with almond milk. I returned to my office as a happy camper, sipping on my morning treat while I took care of some documentation.
I came back the next day and the day after that too. A passing purchase to-go turned into sitting down and enjoying my coffee there, and that turned into waking up at 5:30 AM to get there even earlier. What started as taking a moment to mentally prepare for work turned into a therapeutic hour and a half of doing whatever I wanted over a nice latte. Over time, I noticed some things:
I was no longer at the mercy of morning traffic and the rage it induces. I didn’t have to compromise between getting to work early enough to skip traffic but having nothing to do for a half hour and getting to work right on time after dealing with morning California road rage.
I had more time and energy for hobbies outside of the gym. It’s hard to read books and write poetry after two to three hours of face-bleeding powerlifting. All the fun things I wanted to do at the end of the day, I did in the morning.
I got better sleep at better times. To make sure I got enough quality sleep before 5:30 AM, I had to be in bed by at least 11:00 PM. This kept me from staying up late playing video games or snagging a 3:00 AM milkshake at the most dangerous Denny’s I could find (I used to thrill-seek.)
Most importantly, I was starting every day with pleasant vibes.
I’d arrive, set down my backpack, order a coffee, make conversation with the baristas, plug my laptop charger into an outlet, and start my day. I’d spend an hour and a half before work reading Phantom of the Opera, writing poetry, and watching Netflix. Weeks and months went by. I finished whole books and started a series of poems about eternal, everlasting love transcending lifetimes. Much of the staff became acquaintances. Acquaintances became friends.
Amidst all the new positives from this new morning practice, there was something intangible and immeasurable happening inside. I felt calmer and nicer overall. I got a lot stronger at the gym. I approached days off from work in the spirit of trying new things and exploring new places. I felt not only compelled but safe to be sweet and bubbly in the morning café visits which then extended to the gym, affording me even more friends as I started chatting up my fellow lifters between sets.
The calmness of the morning café was healing and nurturing an inner child, and the intensity of the evening gym was strengthening a maturing adult.
Ever since I was little, undertones of duality had always been present in my life. A certain something or someone was always in the background of my personality when it came time to express myself, always repressed in some fashion.
I’d use words like “amazing” and “outstanding” to describe something I thought was such only to be scolded and told that boys don’t talk that way, that I need to replace those descriptors with “cool” to maintain the stoic masculinity being demanded of the first grader I was. I wasn’t allowed to cry either which really sucked because I cried every day for years, to the point where I can’t remember what age the tears started or stopped.
At some point, maybe around my teenage years, I went cold. My face turned to stone and I spent years rigidly saying next to nothing, solely focused on finishing whatever task there was. I turned into the typical silent guy who cared little for himself but would happily tear the world apart for someone else.
The years went on and I was consistently let down and hurt by the men in my family in one way or another. The women of my life raised me and thus I longed to be more in tune with the feminine side of me, yet I had no means to.
Maxine had no mouth, but she needed to scream.
I hung out with the girls at school. It was hard to make guy friends. I couldn’t handle the way guys bonded through subtle jabs and harmless posturing; I was sensitive and cried easily. I didn’t have the tools to navigate growing masculinity. I was also scared they’d hurt me at some point if I wasn’t man enough.
I started lashing out in fifth grade. The parts of me that just wanted to be soft, gentle, and left alone were constantly picked at. I’d had enough and began letting others feel my pain. I started talking back to my family, even yelling and screaming at them. I started getting into fights at school. I spent much of my time in the principal’s office rather than learning anything in the classroom.
My first middle school fight in seventh grade resulted in a three-day suspension I struggled to academically recover from. The amount of makeup work across six classes compared to the single one in sixth grade was too much for little ole’ depressed and suicidal me. It got so bad that I was almost held back a grade and had to begin therapy.
I maintained therapy throughout seventh to twelfth grade, took a break in college, then began again in 2020 after a mental breakdown. The multiple therapists I had theorized that I had either bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. Regardless, the focus was on the number two. I was one person one moment then another person the next. My temperaments ranged from uncontrollably expressive to toxically measured. I even thought I had dissociative identity disorder at some point.
There was someone inside me aching to be seen, heard, and validated.
As I’ve mentioned before, I began trauma-focused therapy in 2020. I unpacked much of the trauma I suffered at the hands of men and was given the most helpful and accurate diagnosis yet: complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD). Unlike PTSD most of us are aware of that centers on a singular time or event in life, C-PTSD results from ongoing trauma that lasts for months and years, often occurring during an inescapable childhood. It’s often misdiagnosed as borderline personality disorder due to its overlapping symptoms.
While diagnoses of bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder made me feel like I was born with something that was causing me endless strife with others, the diagnosis of C-PTSD made me feel valid in ways I didn’t think were possible. I had gone through a lot, so of course I was a little messed up. Who wouldn’t be? But, I wasn’t born with anything; things happened to me that others failed to take responsibility for and left me to pick up the pieces of a fragmented journey through life. The proper diagnosis allowed me to direct my attention toward ways to heal: writing, reading, lifting, singing, laughing, screaming, and drinking coffee.
I started healing someone, and I started calling her Maxine. It’d been her all this time.
With few guy friends in person, my main source of male companionship has been an online group of close gamers I’ve known for countless years. We’ve gamed, laughed, and cried together well into the late hours of the night. They’ve watched me grow from an angry, repressed little boy to a blossoming young man. They’ve been there for the birth and growth of Maxine.
One day, one of them said to me:
“Not-Maxine, you’re the most sane and insane person I’ve ever met. You’re a Dionysian man full of hate, love, and passion.”
For some reason, that stuck with me. I researched that concept some more and found an interesting paradigm of personality.
The Greek gods Apollo and Dionysus each have their respective archetypes of character, apparently.
The Apollonian lives a life of logic in the past and the future.
The Dionysian lives a life of theater in the present.
In all the childhood and teenage strife I’ve laid out, I’ve always been pressured to balance myself out. Yet, this endearing description from a friend resonated deeply with me. For once, it didn’t feel like there was anything wrong with me for constantly fluctuating and nurturing the sides of me that needed to both sing and scream.
I’ve found much balance in life by leaning to the extremes.
Cute little coffee in the morning. Face-bleeding powerlifting in the evening.
Bubbly smiley boy to new friends. Feral unhinged raccoon to lifetime companions.
Splash of color when I’m feeling cute. All black attire when I’m feeling serious.
As the meme goes, “I will no longer work on myself. I will now be unapologetically insane.”
I’m always working on myself, but you know what I mean.
I now navigate life without shame for who I am and who I’m not.
I make up for lost time by throwing myself into all the hobbies and experiences life has to offer, for all those years Maxine spent silenced and locked away.
Maxine will never shut the fuck up.
We’re happy.