Identity Crisis: How I Overcame An Illness That Never Existed.

The Monomyth

This is the story of a good friend of mine. A story that starts innocently enough. And progresses as one might expect. But it certainly doesn’t end that way. This is my friend’s unique adventure, but I somehow feel he’s not alone. Have you heard of Joseph Campbell’s monomyth; the hero’s journey? It’s a story told ‘round the world, with varying degrees of personalization depending on its geographic origin. It describes a universal force common in all of humanity that drives us toward a path that defines who we are today. Think Luke Skywalker and The Force. This friend I’m writing about recognized that very force in his own life at a young age. A magnetic draw he couldn’t quite explain. He knew he had a purpose, but he didn’t know what it was. An interesting character. He studied everything from Electro-Funk music and the artists who created it, to the Old and New Testaments of the Holy Bible. He wrote poetry, participated in many freestyle rap battles, was a big fan of Wayne Dyer’s books, Tony Robbins’ Unlimited Power, as well as work from Joseph Campbell. He was a high school athlete with scholarships to play collegiately, although he opted out of participating in post high school sports. Instead he attended and completed a four-month-long academy class to become a law enforcement officer. All this as a teenager. All this as he explored any and all avenues toward his path to manhood.

In almost every culture there exists a definitive point in one’s life where a girl becomes a woman, and in the case of my friend, a boy becomes a man. This is the start of a brand new adventure. A chance to show what you’re capable of. To confront a significant crisis, battle your way to victory, and return a changed person. But we don’t always get what we want. This is David Whyte’s “Frontier.” “Whatever you desire of the world will not come to pass exactly as you would like it. But the other mercy is that whatever the world desires of you, will also not come to pass.” See (https://onbeing.org/programs/david-whyte-seeking-language-large-enough/) for more.   My friend discovered that frontier in late 1995. The year he’d return from his adventure a failure. At the edge of the boundary between what he wanted and what actually was. He not only fought against an obstacle that would change the trajectory of his life forever, he also fought to keep his sad, dark reality hidden. A shameful reality he simply wasn’t ready to share with others. But this wasn’t the kind of secret one keeps for long. Not even Harpocrates, divine powers and all, could help keep this conspicuous occurrence silent and confidential. He had Crohn’s Disease, but he didn’t know it yet.

The Diagnosis

His condition had been deteriorating for months. He’d fight valiantly for a while, but eventually his poor health got the best of him. Eventually, the world around him came to see what he was trying to keep hidden. He’d lost an enormous amount of weight in a short time. To the extent that no one would recognize him as the confident, athletic, quick witted young man he used to be. He started a journal one year earlier, taking the advice given by Tony Robbins in his Personal Power 30-day tape program, promising to document every important event in his life. And despite enormous physical and emotional difficulties, he made good on his promise. Entries like this one, written on November 21, 1995, his 24th birthday, offered an unfiltered glimpse into his mind.

December 11, 1995, 8th floor examination room at Parkway West Regional Medical Center in northern Dade County; “Have a seat sir, the doctor will be right with you.” Something about the air in that building was off-putting. It was stale, warm and humid. Maybe it’s me that smells so bad, he thought. The entire process was unnerving; more like being a lab rat in a Mad Scientists’ experiment, than a human in a caring, competent, experienced doctor’s office. Fraught with anxiety, he refused to sit, initially taking the time to read every word on all the certificates and acknowledgement letters framed and hanging on the walls. He then moved to the window overlooking the Golden Glades Interchange as the sun set on a cool, dry, South Florida day. His reflection could be seen slightly to the right of the setting sun. There he stood, as if frozen in time, his very own victim trapped in his very own prison, with his very own team of internal adversaries tormenting him relentlessly. You’re a weak, feeble, sickly, sorry excuse for a human being, they chanted.

He put his forehead against the cold glass, the way he loved doing as a child. He took a deep breath and paused for a moment. And in that moment, he was no longer a victim. No longer trapped in a prison. No longer the subject of a Mad Scientists’ crazy experiment. The air was fresh and clean, crisp and cool. He was free. Alive and excited about life. Excited as he sat in the back of a pickup truck traveling dirt roads through the mountains of Steven Seagal’s 19,000 acre ranch. It was June 1994 again. He was surrounded by friends. Larry Reynosa Sensei, Haruo Matsuoka Sensei, and so many others he admired and looked up to were in attendance. He was at peace, at home with Aikido. Barefoot. Grounded to the sacred Earth of today’s Sun Ranch, bordering Yellowstone National Park. Flowers blanketed long swaths along the countryside, as puffy white clouds quickly disappeared behind endless rows of tall trees growing along the most beautiful mountain peaks he’d ever seen. The clouds; so close he could touch them. The swaying trees, driven by the wind; so real he could hear them. And the flowers; so alive he could smell them.

Knock knock… [door quickly opens]. “The doctor will be with you momentarily,” the nurse said. Devilish eyes, horns and sharp teeth smiled as she jarred him back to reality. As quickly as he found peace and happiness, he was back to misery, 30 pounds lighter and many times weaker than he was back in Montana. He wasn’t himself anymore, but was still hopeful he’d get good news. Still hopeful about the possibility of being found to have nothing more than a bacterial infection, or salmonella poisoning or some such thing.

He put his forehead back against the glass and surrendered to the feeling. For a moment there was peace, but as expected, the positive vibes quickly dissolved into nothingness. Those dreadful voices were back, fading in and out until everything disappeared, but for the sound of that annoying clock. Every phone that rang, every door that slammed, every beat he wrote, every rhyme he thought; drowning beneath the sounds of every tick and tock of the clock. Every smell fell away as time stood still and his senses became numb, even to the cold glass on his forehead. In a daze, he was hypnotized and rhythmically tormented by the only sensory experience that existed at the moment the doctor walked in. Tick tock goes the clock.

Frozen, paralyzed with fear, perhaps terror, he gave in to disappointment, perhaps despair. Or perhaps a combination of them all. Even as the good doctor called out to him, he didn’t dare turn around. For if he did, as he finally did, the answer would be clear, as it finally was. He took a deep breath, turned to face the doctor, and immediately knew. He was prescribed 60mg of Prednisone and sent on his way. Sent back to his high school days. But this time he wasn’t the athlete, writer, rapper, poet, voracious reader of religious text and spiritual material. No. He’s now the lonely version of himself. The one mocked for not being the same as the others around him. The one mocked for loving poetry in a locker room full of kids that preferred violence and aggression over lyrical expression. A reimagined version of that despondent teen living in a trailer park near the dump on the other side of Honey Hill Drive. The same one afraid to show his talent for fear he might screw things up or be rejected. That kid is back again, searching for a better version of himself. Lost and alone, afraid of what might come next. Holding a prescription for a medication specifically designed to improve his physical health. Holding a prescription for a medication guaranteed to destroy his mental and emotional health. Before driving home, he wrote:

Recovery

It took him months to recover from that singular traumatic event. But his recovery went well. Especially considering what he’d been through. Turns out, 60 milligrams of Prednisone can do magnificent things for people diagnosed with severe Crohn’s Disease, as he had been. Once he regained his weight and rejoined his fellow martial artists on the mat, he began to realign his goals, and quickly found a purpose he felt worthy of lifelong pursuit. From Tibetan Buddhist lectures in Corbehem, France to Buddhist healing ceremonies in Santa Barbara, California, there was something inspiring about the universe in which he’d been fortunate enough to find himself. Aikido gave him access to religious teachings and concepts he’d never before been exposed to; a vehicle to higher spiritual realization. But Crohn’s Disease was the purpose that drove him.

And yet, he often found himself struggling to maintain his optimism. He was quickly forced to take two additional medications, Pentasa, an anti-inflammatory drug used to treat Crohn’s and Ulcerative Colitis, and “6-MP,” an oral chemotherapy drug used to treat leukemia. A cocktail that left him nauseous and weak nearly every morning. A cocktail that created such a fog he could hardly find his way through the list of daily activities a healthy person would find routine. Your relaxing January walk through Central Park in Plantation was his crawl through the heart of the Everglades in the middle of August – miserable. Traversing the ordinary was like crossing an abyss on an emotional tightrope that pulled him in every direction as he struggled to find the formula to balancing his life appropriately.

He’d actually prepared well. Physical achievement was no longer the dominant focus in his life. Aikido wasn’t just about what happened on the mat anymore. It was less bujutsu, more budo. More thought, less fight. More intellectual study, less emphasis on kicking ass. Most didn’t see his suffering. Most didn’t understand the challenges he faced every time he smiled and told his colleagues he was okay and ready to go. He was influenced by anger and love at the same time. The dichotomy between science and mysticism, breathwork and medicine, between who he thought he was and who really existed; body and soul, war and peace, love and hate. Crohn’s wasn’t just knocking on the front door. It was in the backyard, on the roof, down the chimney and under his bed. His disease no longer had to cause physical damage to create pain. This was psychological warfare.

Still, he remained undeterred, reminding himself every morning how lucky he was to be alive. And with that, he moved on. No better illustration than his triumphant return to the dojo after taking some time off to heal. Even those who traveled from California with Haruo Matsuoka Sensei to ensure his failure couldn’t ignore the power with which he performed. The events of June 16, 2000 became the catalyst for an intensified sense of responsibility for the wellbeing of those around him. It was then and there that he’d coin a phrase I’d hear him repeat time and again for more than a decade later… May the gift of my physical and intellectual abilities allow me to help others succeed. He now had his black belt in Aikido, and he used it to help anyone who’d ask. He taught in dojos across the Southeast, and Southwest of Florida, without asking for a dime in return. He had a gift, and felt responsible for sharing it with anyone who was interested.

It was during this time that his identity was solidified. His relationship with Aikido didn’t last for long after that night in Fort Lauderdale, but a newer, stronger, personal relationship was born. A fresh version of an old identity revisited. He wasn’t just the man who overcame Crohn’s Disease. He was the man who snubbed the medical establishment and took his life into his own hands. In mid 2005, he angered his doctors, including the rheumatologist who’d recently diagnosed him with Myositis, by deciding to discontinue the use of all medications. He’d refined his diet, cut his body fat to below 10 percent, and focused his energy on his wife and children. The end of Aikido was the beginning of a brand new journey. He was a mentor, teacher, and friend to many who saw him as an inspiration. The random calls from strangers were evidence of his influence. Over the years he’d help heighten the spirits of people who’d been diagnosed with Crohn’s, and other debilitating diseases. They’d been referred to him by friends and coworkers who’d known what he had accomplished. Many of them wanted advice, but more often than not, they simply wanted to talk. Talk about what it meant to be a Crohn’s sufferer. What it meant to have the strength and confidence to go against doctor’s advice and get away with it. Life was good. All was well, until it wasn’t.

Time and Chance

What is this thing we call, time? A progression? Forward movement through a tunnel of ever worsening disturbance and uncertainty? Ludwig Boltzmann’s entropy? An arrow of time flowing in one, fixed direction? It’d been 13 years since last speaking to Sensei Reynosa. The same year he tested for and earned his black belt under Haruo Matsuoka Sensei. Where does time go? Brian Keating? James Altucher? Doctor Strange? Anyone? Thirteen years, but it felt like yesterday. There he was, sitting in seiza listening to Matsuoka Sensei compliment him on the best technique of the night. He feels the rush, as if he was there. Dopamine runs through his veins. He wants more. But he can’t have it. Future him isn’t a black belt anymore. Future him is no longer healthy and strong. Future him doesn’t inspire anyone. Future him is today him, living vicariously through past him. Cronus was up to no good again, reversing the hands of time. Only to return and destroy what was once such a promising future.

He’d built a wonderful fortress about his exterior. What high school rejection, failure, depression and illness tore down, Aikido and Buddhism rebuilt. Fortified to defend against anything that might jeopardize what he’d worked so hard to maintain. Those fortress walls survived years of attack, and were hardened over decades of trials and tribulations. As harsh and abrasive as it all sounds, it took a sensitive heart to accomplish. A compassionate awareness and understanding of the nuanced reality we all individually experience. Poetry and prose, anger and joy, sickness and health, all in concert. Angels and Devils moving synchronously to the sweetest sounds. A symphony refined through the years by an understanding and sympathetic composer. He became the ultimate creator. Perhaps out of necessity, he took great pride in maintaining the delicate balance that held pain and pleasure at equilibrium. It was a struggle. A never-ending struggle. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. The obstacle, as Ryan Holiday would later write, was definitely the way.

On November 1, 2013, he’d face the possibility of losing all he’d worked so hard to preserve. He’d lost weight in a way he hadn’t experienced since his diagnosis in 1995, and once again, sat in a doctor’s office waiting for bad news. This felt eerily familiar. Frighteningly similar to what he felt in December of ‘95. Does time have no mercy? Every step forward was a double step back. No cold windows with sunset views here. It was hot as hell; dark and silent. But the voices were back, and he struggled to focus on what positives might come of this scenario. “Sir, this way please.” Janus stood at the doorway, looking away briefly before turning back again. Both faces told the same story. It was transition time, and war was more than likely on the horizon. He took a deep breath and walked through the gates as time stood still. Nothing else moved, Janus made certain of it. This was the beginning… and the end.

His heart races, as his mind lifts off against the winds of change, carrying him back to Parkway West Regional Medical Center. The doctor’s voice is but an incoherent mumble now. He’s on the 8th floor of an abandoned building, looking out over the Golden Glades interchange the same way he did 18 years earlier. He reaches for the cold window but it’s not there. Only a gaping hole in the wall remains. The sound of the clock buries every other audible output under mounds of glass and debris. Time freezes as he walks to the edge of the windowless wall. Graffiti spells, Welcome Back, in big, bold, colorful font. He’s seen this hell hole before. Stood in this very spot. Forced into a corner like a punished school boy waiting for news that would change his life forever. But he won’t stand for another Crohn’s diagnosis this time. He won’t allow it to happen again. The doctor walks in and calls out to him, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he walks forward and falls through the gaping hole.

His entire universe goes dark as he realizes he is powerless again. He is as weak and vulnerable as he was 18 years earlier, consumed by fear and confusion as gravity pulls him closer to death. He falls past his mother on 7, Biscayne Point on 6, Hip Hop on 5, Dade County Jail on 4, Reynosa and Matsuoka on 3, his wife and sons on 2, and a reflection of himself on 1. He opens his eyes and finds himself back on the examination table as the doctor explains what will happen next. He is prescribed Tramadol for pain, and is scheduled for a series of tests, to include blood work, a colonoscopy, X-Rays, MRIs and an almost certain return to medication. That is what he had to look forward to. In an instant, he’s a changed man again.

This was a time for reflection and perhaps a little deeper introspection than he’d been used to in recent years. The very thought of taking medication again was repulsive to him. But he knew how to face these challenges. He knew what he stood for, and he knew he’d come out of this the same way he did in the past. It took him very little time to come to terms with his fate. He formulated a plan of action, and prepared to document it all. He poured over nearly two decades of journal entries to find any information that would help him in the future. And the way he saw it, this situation provided a chance to fill his chest with more tools to help more people. He was ready to be who he’d already been for years. But he wasn’t. Not even close.

I’d never met a person with the will and ability to force a triumphant return from set back the way my good friend did time and again. But today, he was powerless, faithless, visionless, defenseless and incompetent. Victim of his own affinity for all things mythology. Prometheus knew as much before sending Dolos after him. And Dolos took advantage, creating what had to be his ultimate masterpiece. A duplicate work of art so mentally and emotionally deceiving that not even the subject it was based upon could tell the difference. Nothing is what it appears to be. Even the mirror lies. Misery ensued, as described in his journal…

The decision to prescribe Tramadol for pain and overall discomfort would set in motion an unfortunate series of events, the result of which would nearly derail a two decade long effort to turn pain and suffering into something useful for those who needed help the most. His behavior was now influenced by a medication he couldn’t handle. On the outside, he appeared calm and in control, but 2014 ushered in an entirely new level of emotional instability. One moment a raging lunatic, the next, an intellectual, of sound body and mind. One moment, singing happy birthday to a coworker, the next, hiding behind a closed door feeling worthless and wondering why he even existed. The pain he so effectively hid from others had driven him so deep into the ground, he often wondered how he made it out. On the night of January 8, 2014, he wrote,

A medication he didn’t want to take, soon became a medication he couldn’t live without. Tangling itself within his subconscious wiring so effectively, it all but guaranteed he wouldn’t leave it. Tramadol controlled a rocket hurtling toward Earth; so frighteningly out of control, a disaster was all but certain. On January 9, 2014, he met with his rheumatologist and again discussed his issues with physical pain, and emotional instability related to Tramadol use. And again he got more of the same. In regards to that meeting, he wrote,

He was in a bind, stuck between what medical professionals thought was best for him, and what he felt he could, or couldn’t handle. The next night, he sat on the living room floor, dazed and confused, alone and distraught. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander through space and time. His late, great, 1983 Millennium Falcon sat to his right, with his ColecoVision super action controller to his left. A small rubber football (his only companion when visiting his late brother at Jackson Memorial Hospital in the 1970’s) sat in front of him. He was a child again, and that child made a decision. He was done with all this shit, deciding at that moment to end Tramadol use, going completely against his doctor’s recommendation. He said a short prayer and hoped for the worst. The next morning, January 11, 2014, he wrote,

The next ten days were a blur. There was plenty for him to write, but the sentiment behind every page of written material was the same. He was eager to show another side of himself. Fresh out the Box, with a new attitude, willing to see it all from the other side. To examine his mistakes, correct them, and accept that it was time to cooperate. No spirited debates, no objections. Never had he been more ready to begin a new journey. At this very moment in time, a reconceived superhero, straight out of mythological times, complete with history, purpose, skill and wisdom, was ready to emerge from a chrysalis and take flight. A reimagined Ra, Phoenix and Caladrius combined. He surrenders!

The Truth, The Lies, The Consequences

January 21, 2014 couldn’t arrive fast enough, but it was here. In a South Florida gastroenterology office, the scene was set. But proceedings wouldn’t begin as expected. The good doctor was a professional in every sense of the word. He was also knowledgeable and confident. Someone to be trusted beyond a doubt. But today was different. He appeared nervous and apprehensive, completely out of character. He time traveled, back to 1995, broaching a peculiar angle to the original Crohn’s diagnosis, made by a gastroenterologist long since out of the picture. The look on his face should have hinted something was wrong. Sweat appeared to crawl down his forehead as he began running down a long list of grievances directed mostly at himself. The student is here for an expert’s opinion, but the expert, in this particular confessional, discloses his sins, states his flaws and admits his fears to the pupil with whom he’d reversed roles.

He squirmed in his chair, leaning forward and back as he described his regrets. His remorse for having jumped to conclusions without considering alternatives. Confessing that he, and others in his field have trouble admitting when they’re wrong. He described himself as having “tunnel vision,” and admitted not only to being wrong about this issue, but leading other doctors on what he described as a “Wild Goose Chase.” The colonoscopy was clean, and the new diagnosis was a back injury and a stomach virus occurring simultaneously. Something he’d repeatedly dismissed in previous meetings. The good doctor apologized for what he described as a “serious mistake,” and then, as if trying to slip in a sentence without being noticed, dropped a bomb that temporarily sucked all the oxygen out of the room. In his opinion, Crohn’s Disease never existed.

How’s that for a twist in the plot? In an instant, he went from good doctor, to magician, manipulating the story in multiple, distracting directions before the big reveal. Just as the audience anticipates the next logical conclusion to the tale, the master story-teller switches it up and catches everyone off-guard. This was the medical edition of Chuck Wendig’s Damn Fine Story. A lesson on how to keep your audience entertained. This wasn’t a long, methodical climb up a tall, steep mountain. No! This was a mind-bending ride on the craziest roller coaster ever created by man. A new way to see old shit. For years, he kept us wondering what he had up his right sleeve. Only to pull a rabbit, straight out of his left shoe. That my friends, is how you know you’ve gotten your money’s worth.

Maybe he should have felt “happy,” as the good doctor suggested? Perhaps a sense of relief and closure were in order? Or Not! That night he wrote about feeling alone and “weirdly missing something.” The next morning started with an entry that read, “Do I really NOT have Crohns?” He was lost in a space he had no business traversing alone. The man in the mirror was a fraud, and he was disgusted by his presence. But he couldn’t shake him. There he was, each and every morning, greeting him with another lie. Where’s the man who’d overcome so much? Where’s the man who inspired others to push beyond what they thought were their limits? Where’s the man who turned his back on the medical establishment and proudly did things on his terms? It meant the world and then some, to have overcome this disease. But now, who the hell is left? And how the hell does he redefine who he is? And how does he face the countless people who believed he had Crohn’s Disease? He’d spent enormous amounts of emotional and spiritual capital on this shit. The return on his investment was a lifetime supply of anger, resentment and guilt. And it didn’t end there.

He was living a nightmare, dazed and confused, suffering the side-effects of a medication he dropped without taper, or proper medical supervision. He’d written plans detailing how to proceed after being told Crohn’s was back. He had several scenarios in mind, and multiple ways of handling them all. He’d calculated the chances of scenario A happening over scenario B, C, D through Z. It was logical, based on the facts he thought he knew, and grounded deeply into the earth upon which he stood. But he was no longer on Earth. He was a visitor from some unknown universe, lost in the space of his own warped mentality. He walked narrow trails composed of thin and fragile cosmic ice; his spaceship held together with chewing gum and twine. None of his plans made sense, because none of his plans addressed this very specific reality. He’d been betrayed by the very institution that created him, and launched him into orbit. But as he sputtered back into Earth’s influence, he cracked and burned in its unforgiving atmosphere. There are consequences for living this way.

On January 24, 2014, he sat at his desk, in his Internal Affairs office in sunny Doral, Florida, drafted a letter explaining himself, and reached down to his left ankle holster. Sight, or lack thereof, was of little significance when you’ve had decades of practice. The safety was cleared; his right hand firmly around the Glock’s grip. His time had arrived. No more mythology, no more fantasy. No more dreams, no more nightmares. No more voices, no more visions. No more crying, no more lies. In part, the letter read…

The grip cleared the holster, as he felt his heart pound for the final time. One more…

Knock Knock… “What’s up dock?” The door swung open in an instant. And in that instant the weapon was back home, locked and secured. At the door was one of his supervisors. A Sergeant. Loud, gregarious, cheerful even in the face of adversity, and a close, trusted colleague. He sat down and discussed an investigation which had been resolved using information obtained by me… because, of course, as most of you have already figured out, this story is about me. Lost, afraid, broken, and weak me. A sad, dejected, and exhausted version of me. And yet, I made it home safely that evening, and somehow, woke up ready for a challenge the next morning. He won’t know until he reads this, but my supervisor may very well have saved a life that day.

And so goes the story. I eventually recovered and got myself back into respectable mental and emotional shape. A couple months later, the source of my pain – especially the lower left part of my body – was discovered. An untreated broken bone in my foot, significant enough to have caused nerve and ligament damage. I can still see the cause of the injury today; severely twisting my ankle while running on Fort Myers Beach in preparation for an upcoming sprint triathlon. I never got back to running, swimming, or biking again. Not competitively anyways. But I stayed in shape, and by 2016, began preparing a grand exit from a career I’d already been a part of for over 25 years. I invested all my energy into planning for the next phase of my life. December 31, 2021 was set to be the end of a 30+ year career. But in April of that same year, my wife was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.

Life is so interesting in the ways it tests you. In the ways it challenges you. In the ways it surprises you. Perhaps one day, I will have the mental and emotional fortitude to write about my current difficulties. For now though, I’d like to share with you some of the ideas and principles that helped me overcome the very difficult pre-2021 years.

We are often complicit

I could spend my time blaming doctors for my emotional pain. It is absolutely true; they misdiagnosed me for 19 years. They medicated me unnecessarily for over a decade. Yes, they prevented me from enjoying life to the fullest, that’s true. I could spend hours on this topic alone. Actually, I’ve already done it. Repeatedly re-living it. I was complicit in creating what I didn’t want. I realize that now, and it’s out of my system. I also find that incessant, never ending blame-game more harmful than helpful. More draining than empowering. More victim; weak. Less strong; capable. I find that if I continue to look outside of myself, solutions remain out of reach. But if I look within, I return to the power I can control. There’s an important lesson to be learned here. A lesson for you, the reader, and me, the author. Next time you find yourself in a rut, believing there is nothing more to accomplish, ask yourself how you are creating the circumstances you say you don’t want. Identify the behavior, accept it as truth, work diligently to change it, and then remind yourself that there is always a reason to go on. To fight that urge to give up. Because, whether you recognize it or not, there is always value and meaning hidden behind the initial pain and suffering. Because for some strange reason, we seem to have to trudge through mud before finding our path, and realizing later the mud was in fact part of the path. Because there are always those who may benefit from a chance encounter with a mind blessed enough to have survived such desperate circumstances.

Be wary of attachments

I’m not talking about email attachments (although you should be wary of those as well). I’m talking about attaching your emotional energy to one object or another. It was me and my false beliefs working together to keep me from realizing what was possible. I set myself up for failure by clinging to the “I am” theory for far too long. I am this, and I am that. In reality, I am none of those things. In his book Awareness, Anthony DeMello writes, “When you say, ‘I am successful,’ that’s crazy. Success is not part of the ‘I’. Success is something that comes and goes… That’s not ‘I’.” And yet, I spent far too much energy defining myself by some arbitrary metric. This year I am a runner. The year before that, I was a black belt in Aikido. For years I was a Crohn’s Disease conqueror. And on and on it goes. I am a human; that’s the only “I” statement that is accurate.

In addition to creating labels to describe myself, I became attached to those labels in a very personal way. In Buddhist terms, attachment refers to the desire to control things that cannot be controlled. Attachment is a major source of suffering in Buddhist teachings. And I suffered immensely because of it. Crohn’s Disease offered me an identity, which in turn awarded me status. “I” wasn’t just a black belt in Aikido, “I” was the vanquisher of illness. A dragon-slayer sitting with Zeus atop Mount Olympus waiting for praise. Starving for it. So when the good doctor took that from me, I was lost. I was alone. I was nobody. I was nothing. In reality though, as we know, “I” doesn’t belong in any of those sentences. Instead, an infinitely more constructive way of expressing life at the time would have been to say… feelings of loneliness, worthlessness and sadness existed within me. But I didn’t do that, and subsequently fell into a hole I couldn’t dig myself out of.

Its no use trying to muscle through it

Eventually, when things didn’t go as I had planned, and negative emotions appeared, I ignored them, and tried to “muscle” through the pain. I woke up in complete denial. I had absolutely no time for the sorrow and grief, not understanding that I was participating in the very process of intensifying the pain I was trying to avoid. Failure wasn’t an option. It was time to man up, knuckle down, get my act together, grind, and face the music. But the sad truth is, there is nothing empowering about this behavior. Social media is full of motivational speakers and so-called influencers who recommend it. But I’d think twice before relying on such a strategy to overcome deep, emotional pain. In her book, Awakening Loving Kindness, Pema Chodron writes, “Whether it’s anger or craving or jealousy or fear or depression – whatever it might be – the notion is not to try to get rid of it, but to make friends with it, get to know it completely, so once you’ve experienced it fully you can let it go..” For more on dealing with negative emotions, I suggest listening to a recent Hidden Brain podcast with guest Tracy Dennis-Tiwary titled A Better Way to Worry. I found it insightful and extremely helpful.

Don’t define yourself by what you do

I now realize (hindsight is indeed 20/20 vision), that I ultimately defined my success in much too narrow a scope. In a way that almost guaranteed failure. My idea of success depended almost exclusively on continued victory over Crohn’s Disease. As long as I could thumb my nose at the doctors who “cared for me” over the years, I felt empowered to continue life as I was. My career, my family, even my physical and intellectual abilities were secondary in terms of defining my ultimate success. In fact, I really believed that battling Crohn’s Disease was what made me a better husband, father, friend, coworker, martial artist, athlete, etcetera. I simply couldn’t figure out a way to define my success outside of Crohn’s Disease. Of course we know how that ended. Defining your success with one single metric is a sure way to set yourself up for failure.

You are not what you do. This is one of the most important things I’ve had to learn. Even in retirement today, I struggle with this simple but powerful idea. Do not define yourself by what you do. Instead figure out why you do it. Knowing your Why is one of the major keys to discovering yourself, and protecting against the discomfort of change. It is something I didn’t understand in 2014. It’s the reason I nearly put a gun to my head. Medication certainly had something to do with it, but a false understanding of myself only made matters worse. It prevented me from realizing my true potential. I am committed to helping others succeed. You can take my turntables, my dojo, my illness, and my job from me. I am still committed to helping others succeed. I challenge you to search for, and discover, your Why. If you already know it, act upon it. Make sure your Why stands head and shoulders above your What.

Be wary of medication

Don’t assume that medication side effects listed as rare won’t affect you. I’ve lost count of how many times doctors told me that a side effect I was complaining about was not of concern because it was “rare.” Be diligent in fighting the urge to simply go along with doctor recommendations. Constantly remind yourself that ultimate responsibility for your health lies squarely on you. If you feel something is wrong, regardless of how small or insignificant, seek a second opinion.

Also, be aware of unknown unknowns (things we don’t know we don’t know). In journal entries between 1995 and 2000, I describe incidents of psychic powers and visions. I believed that through meditation, prayer, and chanting, I somehow had the power to see things before they happened. A phenomenon I documented multiple times over several years. At work, while driving, in the dojo, while rapping, mixing music, scratching records, lifting weights, running and so on. I saw and heard things that seemingly allowed me to gain advantage while avoiding danger. I was in some sort of paranormal space, and I attributed special skills to my position in that place in time.

It wasn’t until 2014 that I researched the phenomenon I wrote so much about in my journals. Stories I’d completely forgotten. And it wasn’t until 2014 that I finally discovered what was happening. It was a phenomenon alright, a phenomenon brought on by high doses of steroid medication (Prednisone). In the clinical world, it’s referred to as “Steroid Psychosis.” See also Steroid Psychosis. Today, I believe I can make a more informed decision about my “abilities.” Prednisone didn’t turn me into a superhero. It simply helped me become a closer version of the person I was always supposed to be. This is especially true in terms of my physical self. I was often jokingly referred to as the healthiest sick person in the world. My diet was extremely strict, almost exclusively guided by Eileen Gottschall’s book, Breaking the Vicious Cycle. I made sacrifices to lengths others thought were unreasonable. But I somehow neglected to credit them. Instead taking the easy route and supporting the idea that meditation, prayer, and some mysterious force had given me an advantage over the “ordinary world.” I’ve no doubt we all possess some sort of innate, unseen, undetectable sense that guides us during difficult times. But let’s face it, I wasn’t in that space. I was under the influence of an overwhelmingly powerful medication.

I feel I could have done more to prevent this from happening. At least to the extent that it did. Here’s a list of steps I think could have helped me in the past, and perhaps could help you in the future.

1. Analyze the effects of medications you take on a regular basis.

2. Make a concerted effort to continually weigh the benefits against the risks as they relate to you personally.

3. Remain open to the idea that circumstances exist before us that we don’t know we don’t know (the unknown unknowns). It is far too easy to exclude yourself from the one percent of people experiencing deleterious side effects if you’re not open to the possibilities in the first place.

4. Don’t focus solely on the results of clinical trials, and the information given by doctors referring to a side effect as “rare.”

5. Closely monitor what happens to you. And make an informed decision (preferably with a doctor’s assistance) from there.

In closing…

To all those who believed in me and offered support for my battle against Crohn’s Disease, I offer my sincerest apologies. There is no easy way to express my regret for the way I handled the news of my changed diagnosis. I can only hope that you’ll accept my apologies and see it in your hearts to forgive me. This was an enormous, life-changing event for me, and I simply didn’t know how to be up front about it. I know I could have done better, but I failed. I am truly sorry for any ill feelings I may have created as a result of the way I handled this.

 Let me know what you think, and if you’d like, share with me your strategies for overcoming difficult life challenges.