Story time. It’s 8:36AM on Sunday morning and I promised myself I’m not gonna spend more than 30 minutes writing this. I’ve got things to get back to – but first, ideas to bounce off of you.

Last night was my roommate’s birthday and if you know anything about Ivan, you’ll understand how excited I was to finally see him separated from his strict regiment of school, study, and sweaty Thai kick-boxing. The night started off pretty standard – we took the R to the E to the 6 train and ended up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a block off of St. Marks Place. Time, time for some, time for some, sushi. Dinner discussion with his 5 med-school buddies didn’t stray too far from tests, exams, and other such extraordinary extravaganza.

A green tea ice-cream scoop and wet hand-wipe later, it was time to hit the town for some celebratory Saturday night sipping. So we cruised and perused and finally found a place called Coyote Ugly. You may have seen a movie with that title – I have not. Nevertheless, we walk in and there they are – 8 girls in skin tight outfits, standing on the bar, bending their bodies in ways that make me not ever wanna have a daughter. High heeled boots are stoically being stomped on the bar-top as these dare-divas pour shots of Bourbon high from the ceiling down to the stool-sitters. I’ve never been one to get “dumb-drunk” but I do enjoy a good show when its offered.

15 minutes into this monsoon of madness, the game changes. One of his med-school comrades comes clean to the bartender that its Ivan’s birthday. Next thing I know, Ivan’s got a dominatrix type high-heel being jammed in his jugular from a bartender towering over him on the bar. Annnnnnd then the belt comes off. Two bartenders turn Ivan around, blindfold him, and literally, repeatedly whip his butt-cheeks with his belt-buckle at full force. Ouch! These bartenders knew how to take the tender outta the bar.

A couple of minutes ago, I was looking through pictures from last night. And as I’m thumbing through them, I find myself saying that I’ve never been the type of guy to do something like that. I’m sure my ego has an enormous part to play in that astute observation, but I’m not cool with getting abused, beaten, and battered in any part of my life.

I’m not a victim – I’m a creator. And if I start getting victimized, I create a solution.

And as I’m here this morning in bed, tooting my own horn and thinking how I’d never take that abuse from anyone, it suddenly struck me: I may not take that type of abuse from others, but on some level, in some way, during some days, I’ve taken that abuse from myself.

I’ve held onto my past wounds like lifelines. I’ve viciously obsessed over my negative fixations to the point of sickening myself. I’ve denied myself self-recognition for how much I’ve grown and I’ve beat myself up for basic blunders. I’ve stayed in jobs as they depleted me of my soulfulness. Metaphorically talking, I’ve spanked myself harder than anyone ever has.

And as beautiful and unique of a snowflake as I am, I know I’m not the only one who’s abused themselves.

So, why? Why do we do it? Why beat ourselves up?

Maybe Freud would come up with some off-the-wall answer like, “If as adolescents we’re used to being punished, it becomes an integral part of how we function, and when we grow up and the punisher disappears, we unconsciously learn to punish ourselves.” And maybe there’s even a minuscule trace of masochism involved. Perhaps in the punishment lies a pinch of sick pleasure. After all, it was by choice that Ivan endured that brutal butt bashing.

So I wrap this rant up with some space for self-reflection.

Are you punishing yourself in an area of your life and not even realizing you’re doing it?

.

.

.

.

.

.

If so, happy birthday! It’s time to blow out the candles.

 

Privacy Preference Center