DEFINITION
I have an Anger Management Problem. First, let's break down the definition of Anger Management.
“Anger management is an approach designed to help you manage the emotional and physiological arousal that accompanies anger. As it's often not possible to change the circumstances or people that elicit anger, anger management can help you recognize your triggers for anger and learn to cope with them more effectively”
We have the word anger, such as a fury, and the subject's lack of ability to turn control it. Sounds basic, really. Elementary. I'm sure there are folks out there that may fit a clinical definition of it, but this isn't here nor there. I have no professional diagnosis, I have nothing to go off of other than this rudimentary synopses one can find anywhere online, or just by breaking down the words.
FOCUS
Where does this anger go? To what is it angry at? Well, I don't really think I take it out on others. If so, I'd hope they'd tell me. I could see myself having a TON of guilt if it turned out I took it out on another person.
Does it go into inanimate objects? Again, no. As far as I know, when I run into mechanical problems I'm not punching Lechuza or throwing it onto the ground. I don't see myself tossing objects at the wall, I don't own anything that has imprints of my anger on it.
I know where it goes. I aim it right at myself. All of my frustrations, anger, and disappointment is constantly aimed inward. I treat myself like an abusive partner or parent. I give myself no leeway, no benefit of the doubt, no patience.
THE CRITIC
A quick story: The drummer of the band Rush was the late great Neal Peart, who died in January 2020 before the pandemic kicked off. Back in 1997, he lost his only daughter to a car accident and his wife to cancer. His entire family was gone in less than a year. In his grief, he purchased a motorcycle and took it as far north as he could in Canada, then rode down through Mexico to Belize. He wrote a book on this experience, "Ghost Rider" and I would highly recommend it. He was also the lyricist for the band so the writing is quite good.
Anyway, in this book, he creates personifications of voices in his head. He had a lot of time to think on the road and process his grief; looking for ways he could get through the pain he was suffering and learn to love life again and move forward. He named the voices in his head. When he was feeling 'happy' he would name it one voice, when he was sad, he'd name it another. Anthropomorphizing feelings, like in the Pixar movie "Inside Out", is said to actually be a good way to handle stress for children. It was working for Neal Peart, it works for children, why not me?
Well, circling back to me again, I've got a voice in my head too. I'm calling it "The Critic." It's not just a voice, but a perspective of an unempathetic, sociopathic, abusive observer. The voice comes out whenever there are colossal fuck ups.
WHEN IT CHIMES IN
When does this voice come out? Well, it's been there my whole life! As far back as I can remember, I've always wanted to master things on the first try. I put a lot of pressure on myself to understand things, and it's never really changed. I know other people who also have this issue. It's not uncommon, but at times, it's something that's inhibited me from moving forward.
One massive example was when I went to "Ski Club" in high school. All my friends had been going for years and were begging me to go. One winter I was finally lent a snowboard so I could go along. I saw all of my friends, with several winters' experience, going up and down the slopes effortlessly. You would've never known they had this skill set in a classroom or hanging out anywhere else. It only comes out on the slopes.
Well, guess what. I was so fucking furious with myself because I kept falling. I kept getting stuck. I kept making the same mistakes. My friends had no issue going up and down the slopes, even stopping and hanging out near me when I laid on the ground frustrated, bruised, and in pain. The anger was so real. I kept cursing myself. I kept thinking I wasn't fit to do this. I didn't have the coordination nor skill set. They made it look so easy. I was so angry, my friends distanced themselves from me and I went to the chalet alone, warming up inside with a pouty face. Later that day, after some encouragement from friends, I eventually I fought through it and learned, but you know? That problem never really went away.
EXAMPLES ON THIS TRIP
The Critic has stepped in numerous times on this trip and it's (I have) made this trip a living hell (for myself).
Now I'm on the road, living on my own and setting my own pace. I can go wherever I want... but.. not actually.
I never really grew up with motocross like so many motorcyclists have. I have this massive 1100 CC motorcycle, which is pretty big, and it's not the best on dirt roads for an inexperienced rider. I'm not experienced on dirt either. I did take ONE class in the summer before Jimdependence day, that's all.
So, from time to time, I fall. Or, in a fit of rage, I look forward, see the road is TOO TOUGH for me to handle, and I turn around. It's at these times the critic steps in.
"An experienced rider wouldn't have fallen down. You should've taken more classes."
"You're adding more time to your ride, and you're going to arrive late because you're not skilled enough to take that road."
"Why didn't you take more classes? You're not fit for this."
Or, when my motorcycle breaks and I'm unable to figure out the issue. OR, ESPECIALLY, when It's my fault the motorcycle is 'failing to proceed.' There's times where I'm taking apart my motorcycle and I get afraid.
"A mechanic would know what is wrong. You don't know enough to be on this trip."
"Why didn't you take more classes or watch more YouTube videos to understand what's wrong?"
"You're pretty pathetic for backing out when the going got tough. Just push through it. It's the only way to learn!"
Of course, I worry that if I put the motorcycle back together imperfectly, I'll create a slew of NEW more expensive, more damaging problems.
"You shouldn't have trusted that GPS. Didn't you see the road was shit before you turned onto it?"
"If you knew what you were doing, you would've got a smaller motorcycle. This thing can barely turn around."
"When you were in The Arctic, there were dozens, if not hundreds of people just like you riding around on motorcycles, far from home, who have taken YOUR journey. WHAT YOU'RE DOING ISN'T SPECIAL, IT'S NOT THAT HARD, YOUR FRUSTRATIONS DO NOT MATTER, YOUR ANGER IS PROOF THAT YOU ARE NOT FIT TO TAKE THIS JOURNEY. PEOPLE DO THIS EVERY DAY."
NEGLIGENCE IS INEVITABLE
There have been numerous examples of this. I've been dealing with The Critic my whole life. Here's the thing, though. You can't just "work on it" in your spare time. You can't just "practice" getting better at not being angry at yourself. It's not like going to the gym to get ready to lift something heavy. No matter how much meditation you try, you're not going to silence The Critic when a massive problem comes up and it was your fault.
You can only practice when "it happens". The Critic only shows it's ugly face when you've actually made the mistake.
Well, luckily, on this trip, there have been plenty of examples. (There is a LOT of weight on the word "Luckily")
-I went to a laundry company and left behind an $70 sinch bag that compresses my clothes down. I got the clothes, didn't check for the sinch bag.
-I left my motorcycle on and plugged in a slew of cameras to charge them, draining the battery and causing me to hitch hike over 1,000km over the course of ~15 hours to drag my sorry ass and motorcycle to a safe haven, inconveniencing MANY people.
-I LOST MY TOOLS.
THE TOOL STORY
There's nothing glamorous about this. Well, I guess there isn't anything cool about this blog at all, opening up like this. I don't like doing it, but it's a part of the journey, so I'm documenting it and sharing it for you to see. (If you're still reading.)
So to start--- something about me? I collect license plates. Amongst people close to me this is no secret. I've gone around to junk yards and asked if I could take license plates off of cars so I can ship them home. I've decorated many a basement and apartment with them. I've even had friends and family act like The Critic, telling me I should take them down.
"No girl is going to want a guy who has these up in their house." they've said. "It's like having a car bed. It's immature."
Anyway, fuck them, I know a few women who broke that theory- but the time came for me to find some more plates here in Mexico. Junk Yards are everywhere, and rusting out cars have plenty for the taking. EVERY STATE in Mexico has their own plate! Goldmine!
The thing about junkyards, is that they're manned by people who are some of the most blue-collar members of society. There's nothing wrong with that, but their slang is incredibly hard to understand.
There was no exception to this when I went to Ireland. In my successful attempt to nab one there, I couldn't make heads nor tails of what the man behind the counter was telling me. It was like speaking to the man from "Hot Fuzz"
After fumbling through Spanish at a junkyard on the outskirts of Durango, and even having a younger shop worker translate his bosses' Spanish FOR ME, I was able to acquire plates from Zacatecas, Chihuahua, and a coveted "Pancho Villa" Durango Plate. This was a massive catch.
After, I had made a video of myself, GLEEFULLY grinning from ear to ear as I made my way to Lechuza to pack up the loot. I set my tools down on my bike, packed up the plates, and a white truck pulled up and comment on my motorcycle. We got to talking alongside the road under the unforgiving Mexican sun alongside the Durango-Zacatecas highway.
After shooting the shit, they moved on into the junkyard, I hopped on, and I rode away. I was listening to music. I was happy. I was riding high. Then, a gust of wind hit me off of the high-plains desert and something didn't feel right. It was as if I was getting wind resistance from the right side of my bike. Then it dawned on me. THE PANNIER IS OPEN. YOU DID NOT CLOSE IT, THEREFORE: YOU DID NOT PACK THE TOOLS IN IT.
My mind begins racing. I get tunnel vision. I slam on the brakes. My mind begins to race.
The tools cost $120.00 Pre-Tax and were specifically purchased because they contained all the necessary sizes for a Honda Africa Twin. I'm not an expert at the machine, therefore, the tools would help. It rolled up easily. It came with Loctite, Duct Tape, and metal wire! I'd made countless adjustments and routine tweaks with these tools. They were part of me. They were part of Lechuza!
I pulled a U-turn in the middle of the empty desert highway and burned through a ton of gas on the way back to the junkyard. Then here it is: The Critic.
"You forgot them? High schoolers could've remembered to simply pack it up."
"Why did you buy such EXPENSIVE TOOLS? If you had more experience with engines you would've known that they were way too expensive."
"You didn't feel the weight distribution difference? It's so much lighter on this side now. The tools aren't made of glass."
"This is going to set you back more than $100. More adept travelers don't make mistakes like this."
"Your inexperience is costing you."
"You would be able to make it farther in your journey if you didn't keep fucking up like this."
"AGAIN, PEOPLE DO THIS EVERY DAY. YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL, YOU ARE NOT FIT FOR THIS JOURNEY."
"After 7 years of preparation, you still make naive, routine, completely preventable mistakes. You're not going to make this. Your efforts are worthless. Your dream is a sham, your purpose is a joke, you have done nothing with your life at 33."
It gets worse than this. I'm cursing myself. My face is beat red in my helmet and it's not because of the heat, nor the sun. All of the joy from getting my license plates melts away and is replaced with nothing but self loathing.
I got to the junkyard with some 10km of dust in my wake. I see no tools lying around. There is a blue car and 3 men are walking up to it with the rim of a tire they'd purchased. I asked if they'd seen a packet of tools, black, it would've been noticeable. They all say to talk to the boss of the junkyard, they don't know. The blue car pulls away.
The white truck is already gone. After talking with the head of the junkyard, he says that a girl in the white truck I was talking to was his niece. He even calls her and she says that she hadn't seen the tools, but there had been a blue car that could've seen them.
"If they're not there, the blue car took them. I don't know who they are." he says.
I'm shit out of luck.
I know what tools I need, I'll have to buy them, but that isn't the part that sucks. It's the fact I made the mistake in the first place. I am furious with myself. The Critic is winning, I'm convincing myself that I am not fit for a journey like this. If I return home a failure, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Packing it all in over one mistake? Isn't THAT pathetic in comparison? The fact I'm weighing these options at all creates a positive feedback loop. I am angry because I am angry. This makes me angry. It doesn't end. The Critic dances over my head repeating the same lines over and over, cause my blood pressure to spike. I'm even breathing furiously.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
Luckily, I'm taking steps to recognize when The Critic starts. I do everything I can to shrug this off.
"It's a silly little mistake! Anyone could've done it."
"Oh well, cost of doing business."
"Maybe a new kit of tools will be lighter and more efficient. You know what tools you've used in the pack now."
Easier said than done.
If I can get ahead of The Critic, I can stave off the worst of it. The issue is, I have to do so ONCE IT STARTS. Timing is everything, and it has to be when it starts. If you go to far, it might be too late. Once I'm in a blind fury, it's harder to stop and even worse: I tend to make more mistakes. I try to breathe, try to distract myself with a podcast, I try to talk myself away from the ledge. Every passing semi's grill looks so tempting. Just swerve right into it. You won't feel it for more than a second. No, no. It's a fucking $120 bag of tools. Stop it.
I finally arrive at my destination. Ismael, an old man who owns the property, is allowing me to camp in his back yard for 200 pesos / night. Roughly $10. It has a warm shower, secure parking, and a weak data signal. The poor man saw me arrive in a huff. I was unhappy with the tools, but then I found out more had gone wrong.
THE CRITIC GOES FOR A HAIL MARY
Upon trying to plug in my cellphone, the charger won't work. My only Fast Charger is dead. Even if my phone is plugged in, editing videos will DRAIN THE BATTERY NOW. I will have to find a new one.
My water bladder leaks. My sinch bag (I went back and got it that day, they had saved it for me), my air mattress, and my sleeping bag are wet. I don't know what I'm going to do with that still.
My things are breaking down. This is expected. This will happen. Much of my gear is from my practicing years. My tent IS AS OLD AS THIS DREAM. I purchased it in 2015. Things are bound to break down. It was insult to injury. I started to break down. I put my head in my hands and just stared at the floor.
Ismael must've been quite impressed with this new visitor.
I went to bed. Upon waking, the first thing I thought about was the tools. The Critic was right there in the tent with me, waiting for me to wake up to remind me of my mistakes. I brush it off, as it seems the sleep has assisted. I apologize to Ismael for any immature behavior I may have exhibited, but he waves it off. He thanks me for staying at his place and even hands me a bottle of Gatorade, completely unsolicited. It was coconut flavored "Electrolit".
WHAT NOW?
I'm typing this while feeling whole again. I've purchased new tools, I bought a new charger, and I took the time today to go out and find them. There will be more opportunities to work on my relationship with The Critic. I'm not looking forward to them, but I feel as long as I've identified the issue, the real battle will be learning to work to stop it before it takes control. The narratives don't help. Why listen?
-JT
2/12/2023