Pain Don't Hurt

by Mark Miller

  “Hello?” She had been crying, I could hear it. And she was angry.

  “Hi, Shelby.” I winced.

  “Fuck you, Mark.” And she hung up on me.

  I called her right back. This time she was a little bit calmer.

  “Where the fuck have you been? I have been trying to call you for three hours now. After one, when I didn’t hear from you I started threatening you. Then when I didn’t hear from you after that, I called hospitals, jails, I called Eamon, Josh. . . .” She trailed off, starting to cry again. “I pictured you dead in a ditch. I can’t have that, Mark, and your kids don’t deserve to find you reeking of shitty booze in the morning. Amy doesn’t deserve you basically breaking and entering in her home just because you drank too fucking much. You can’t do this anymore.”

  I know, I told her. I know.

  Amy was as pissed off as I expected her to be with this. In the morning she angrily took the key from me and told me that I smelled like a disgusting hobo. I showered and brushed my teeth, hoping that my kids wouldn’t notice. But I knew. . . .

  When I returned to Los Angeles, Shelby sat down by her miniature Christmas tree and, before giving me my gifts, said, “I have to say something to you. I don’t think I can handle you drinking anymore—”

  I cut her off.

  “I can’t handle me drinking anymore. I will never fight again if I keep this up, and I know I need help.”

  In the next few days I told Mikee and Adam I wanted to go to a meeting. They took me, shaking, frightened, and full of self-loathing, into my first meeting. They held my hands through the prayers and through the introduction. And for the first time in my life I heard myself say out loud that I was an addict and that I needed help, something my brother never could do. Suddenly I felt so much remorse for how hard his life must have been. I met a group of people who were gritty, tough, strong. People who had stories that would make most people’s hair stand straight up, and all of them were there, white-knuckling the desire to tune out life, smoking an abundance of cigarettes, drinking gallons of coffee, and supporting each other. Shelby picked me up afterward and asked me how it went. I gave her the only real answer that there was to give.

  “I am scared shitless, but at least I know now that I have a chance.”

  My Tuesday meeting became a constant. I never shared, but I sat there, quietly, listening. The shitty thing that nobody tells you is that when you first get sober, you get to deal with feelings suddenly. Feelings that you thought you had kept at bay. The worst came when I was walking with Shelby through a department store and suddenly a song came on. A song I connected to my childhood. A song that out of nowhere dredged pristine and tender thoughts up through the black sludge that filled my memory vault. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to Shelby in a panic. “We have to leave.”

  “What’s wrong, Mark? Are you okay?” She was already quickening her pace to keep up with me as I made for the door. “Mark . . . talk to me.”

  She reached for my arm and I yanked it away. I had very little left keeping me together. Anything could tip me over. The last few hundred feet to the door, I ran. I sprinted. Once outside I turned and ducked behind a planter and felt my body fold in half in excruciating pain, and suddenly, without any way to stop it, I started to sob, and I mean full-body-collapse sob.

  Shelby went to hug me but I waved her off. Instead she stood beside me with one hand on my back, her eyes welling up next to me. She had known this was coming.

  I cried for the better part of twenty minutes. I cried until I felt like I had no guts, until I was choking and almost gagging. I cried until I was exhausted. It was midsummer of 2010 and this was the first time I had cried since my family had died. These were the first tears I had been able to access.

  The song was “The Rainbow Connection,” and the line that crumbled me up was “Who said that every wish, would be heard and answered . . .”

  Shelby didn’t know about my family. She knew they were dead, but she didn’t know when or how. It was time to tell her.

  chapter sixteen

  Last year we said, “Things can’t go on like this” and they didn’t . . . they got worse.

  —WILL ROGERS

  I sat Shelby down and I told her everything. Well, almost everything. I didn’t tell her that we were almost out of money. I don’t know why I couldn’t tell her. She kept asking me if she needed to get a job to help or if she could do more to earn her keep. . . . But the truth was just having her around was enough for me emotionally, even if it didn’t pay the bills. I didn’t want her to leave, and I was afraid that if I told her we were going to both need jobs and we were probably going to need to move to a less luxurious place, she would. I was not, and am still not, used to people liking me for me. So, I lied and prayed that something would happen before the money was gone.

  Part of my sobriety was being of service. I opted to volunteer with Shelby at a dog rescue. Every Wednesday and Friday we would show up and walk dogs that were at the rescue, maybe give them a bath, a hug, whatever. The rescue she had chosen to volunteer at specialized in “danger breeds,” German shepherds, rottweilers, and a lot of pit bulls. You can’t imagine how much I identified with these dogs. So completely misunderstood. Those days were some of the best days. We would each get a dog and just disappear on a trail by ourselves with them for a while; unable to walk two dogs close to each other, we were each on our own. It was just me and a dog. I had some of my very best conversations those days. You’d be amazed at what good listeners they really are. Over time the woman running the rescue began to trust me more and more, and since I was one of the biggest volunteers they had, I was being given some of the harder-to-handle dogs. Big cane corsos, Neo mastiff/pit bull cross-breeds, huge dogs, one hundred pounds and up, and some of them with terrible leash manners. I knew what they needed. I would bring my running shoes to the rescue, strap them on, grab the leash, take off, and just run them. Run the anxiety out of them. Run them until they couldn’t be mad, untrusting, or scared anymore. That’s all that a dangerous or aggressive dog is, a scared dog. I should know. I ended up with more than a few very large pups collapsed in my lap, happy and slobbering, after these runs. I felt like it should have been me laying at their feet. I got as much out of it as they did.

  Shelby, in the meantime, was trusted with some of the smaller but more difficult dogs and had started bonding really hard with one, a smallish pit bull named Ali (yes, like the fighter, and yes, he came with that name). He had had a difficult past, and we would find out later from various vets that he had sure signs of abuse on him: grid marks on paws from being electrocuted or burned through some kind of mesh; scars all over his face and forelegs, most likely from fighting; and a highly aggressive disposition toward other dogs, but he was an absolute love to her. He trusted her, and she had a soft spot for the broken ones. By the end of May, Ali was a new roommate and was taking full advantage of the size of the loft by charging from one end to the other before popping onto his hind legs for “hugs.” He was amazing. You can’t be in a bad mood when you have a big silly dog so excited to see you every time you walk into the room. But he was another mouth to feed. I had people, and animals, depending on me. The noose was getting tighter. I needed to fight again, and for the first time, I actually really wanted to fight again.

  I was training full-time now, and it felt so good. Shane flew out and stayed with us for a week, helping Shelby to tweak my conditioning. My diet had leveled my weight back up to 210 without disrupting my insulin needs. Amy and I were talking civilly again and she was very happy to hear that I was clean. I was healthier and happier than I had been, but I was also terrified.

  One night at one of my meetings, I decided to take the next step in my sobriety. I had been drawn to a man named Matty, a former fashion entrepreneur who had lost almost everything to drugs and alcohol. He had gotten sober and was rebuilding himself into not just an incredible person but an incredible businessman once more. Matty had the same open kindness th
at Mikee and Adam possessed. He was always there with a hug, always checked on me after meetings, always smiled when I seemed to open up a bit more. Matty still looks like he might be twenty-two years old. Bright green eyes and dark hair with a soft New York accent. He was sensitive enough to be gentle with me but had enough grit to not get rattled by my harshness or ugly stories. One night I approached him. He had been talking to me about his new business venture, Android Homme, a high-end shoe company. I was fascinated. He was so passionate, and I knew I needed someone who would understand passion for a career by my side. I asked him if he would be my sponsor. It was one of the hardest things I have ever forced myself to ask another person. The risk of rejection was massive. Then Matty, unintentionally, lightened the mood.

  “Well, Mark, Android Homme is just starting, but I would love to talk about how maybe we could be a sponsor of yours—”

  I cut him off.

  “No . . . no, Matty, I want you to be my sponsor. My sponsor in recovery. Not for your company to sponsor me as an athlete . . . although I’m open to that as well. . . .” I laughed nervously.

  Matty’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry I misunderstood. I’m honored. I would love to, and, Mark, thank you for trusting me and for asking me. That’s a real gift.” He grabbed me in a hug, and I turned away quickly. I was crying a lot lately.

  Between working actively at my sobriety daily—and it is work—training, trying very hard to get a fight, and keeping the impending doom of being penniless from Shelby, I was stressed. I tried to focus on the good things . . . and the not-yet-grown-up part of me tried to ignore the bad . . . even when I went delinquent on rent and had to work out a deal with the landlord to let me do payments . . . payments I couldn’t even keep up with.

  Fights were hard to come by. Most organizations didn’t want to touch me. I was thirty-eight, a type 1 diabetic, and post heart surgery. I was a risk. I was even looking into MMA fights, which held no interest for me. I would get one organization interested, and then they would give up. The glut of MMA fighters out there made me less interesting and more difficult than any promotions wanted to deal with. I was teaching here and there, mostly with NFL guys and a few hockey players, but there were no professional fighters in Los Angeles for me to teach continually. In Pennsylvania, following the death of my brother, I had spent some time working at a gym there called LionHeart. I had been the head MMA trainer and had overseen professional fighters such as Phil Davis, Paul Bradley, Jimy Hettes, Jon Jones, Dominick Cruz, Dave Herman, Charlie Brenneman, and a few others. I was and still am a good coach. I wanted to work with pro athletes if I was going to teach, and I wanted to still have time to train myself. I was clinging to the idea that I would come back to fight, but that hope was dimming, and was about to get a lot dimmer.

  In August of 2010, one early morning Shelby was making coffee and heating up some premade oatmeal/quinoa concoction that she made for breakfast for us. I could hear Ali’s collar clinking against his bowl and his little nails against the polished concrete floor. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It was nine A.M. No one came by this early. The building had a doorman and a required sign-in sheet, so there was no way this was a solicitor . . . oh no . . .

  I could hear Shelby putting Ali in his crate and going to answer the door. Then I heard it.

  “LAPD, ma’am, we are here for an eviction. . . .”

  Shelby went silent. Then she said, in the most agonizing voice, “Let me get Mark, this is his place actually, he’ll explain, I’m sure this is a mistake. . . .”

  I grabbed a backpack out of my closet and in seconds threw some things in that I knew I would need right away. I had known this was coming. . . . I just didn’t know it would be today. . . . I thought I had more time.

  A knock at the bedroom door, and I opened it a crack, and there she was, wide-eyed. “Mark, there’s been a mistake, there are cops at the door. . . .”

  I open the bedroom door to reveal that I had a bag on my shoulder, and her expression fell. I tried to reason with the cops, but there was nothing I could do. We were going to get locked out. We had to take whatever we could carry and leave, and they would be locking the door behind us. Right as Shelby started to really panic, the landlord showed up and tried to calm her by saying she would keep the place locked, but that we would have fifteen days to get our property out, so we wouldn’t have to worry about it going onto the street.

  Then Shelby asked, “Well, how much do you need? I mean, how much is he overdue for? Maybe I can help. . . .” My Pollyanna Sunshine friend. My perpetual optimist . . . she started rifling through her purse for her wallet.

  The landlord’s face fell as she said quietly, “Seven . . .”

  Shelby brightened. “Seven hundred? Oh, I can do that!”

  The landlord placed a hand on her arm. “No, honey . . . Seven thousand . . .”

  There it was, out loud. My failure in a number.

  Shelby dropped her purse in shock. She turned to me and her eyes were burning. She was crying, and angry, and disappointed. I hated it. I had completely failed her. She went from having a home, a home she loved (she regularly told me how grateful she was to be living there), and feeling secure and happy, to being without a home in a matter of minutes. I watched her, totally helpless, as she moved angrily through the house and packed three, four bags, including Ali’s bowls, food, clothing, toiletries, and a few expensive things that she wanted to ensure were safe. She collapsed Ali’s crate and wedged it under her arm. Then she slipped Ali’s leash around his confused head, grabbed her keys, and walked out the door to the elevator. I followed her and heard the click behind me as they locked us out. It was nine forty-five.

  She didn’t say a word, not until she got to the car and arranged a small blanket in the back for Ali. He jumped in, clueless, happy to be on an adventure, and she called her mother. Shelby had not lived at home for any notable length of time since she was seventeen. She and her mother had a good relationship when there was distance between them. Close up, her mother could be critical, negative, and even degrading to Shelby. I had heard it through the phone many times. But this was it; I had left her with no other option. She asked if she could come home, through hiccups and clenched teeth. Her mother sounded sad for her; I didn’t blame her. She told her to come home, that they’d figure it out. Her mother had a five-bedroom house in Ventura County, about forty minutes north of Los Angeles. Shelby jumped in the car and turned it on. I didn’t know what to do. I knew if she drove away that I would have no one left. I had fallen so far out of touch with Justin that I couldn’t call him just for help. I couldn’t ask for any more help from Rakaa, or Mister Cartoon, or Estevan, or any of them, all of whom had tried to help me. I had run out of help. I stood there, terrified, as she started to back out of the parking lot. Then, she stopped.

  “Are you fucking coming or are you going to try to sleep on skid row tonight with the other fucking bums?” She was crying, I mean torrentially. And she was taking digs because, well, I deserved them. I reached for the passenger-side door handle slowly. As I got in, she turned away from me and just said, “How could you do this to me . . . how . . . ?” It dissolved what was left of my heart.

  “I . . . I’m so sorry. . . .” It was such a pitiful fucking thing to say, and it fell so far short of what I wanted to convey to her.

  “God, I just want to fucking hit you right now. I want to hit you so fucking bad.” She was serious. This I could take. This I was used to.

  “Do it. Please, do it. If it will make you feel better, go ahead and—”

  She cocked back and slapped me twice on my left cheek. I have to say, it shocked me. It wasn’t that I didn’t really mean for her to do it—I wanted her to—but I kind of didn’t think she would. Shelby isn’t violent by nature. She’s fierce but not violent. This meant she was livid. And it didn’t seem to make her feel better; it seemed to make her feel worse.

  “Goddamn it, Mark. My fucking mom’s house. And I’m not taking yo
u. There’s a Motel Six about five minutes from her place; I’ll drop you there and you can get yourself a room for the night. We’ll figure out long-term plans tomorrow.”

  “I hope it’s a cheap place.” I laughed. I was trying so desperately to make light of it. I felt like I had big sailor’s knots for guts. I could not unclench my hands from around small bits of fabric on my pants. I felt like I was falling off my little fragment of peace of mind. I wanted a drink.

  Shelby went to her mother’s house first, which was so much worse for me mentally, and I know now that she did it on purpose. She made me help her unload her stuff and Ali into the small downstairs bedroom. We set up his crate, took him for a short walk (he loved it, as this house was out in the suburbs, so he got to walk on grass instead of asphalt), and then put him in his crate so she could take me to the motel. Her mother was pleasant, not cruel or bitter, but she definitely looked disappointed also. Disappointed for me and by me. It was awful.

  Shelby pulled up to the Motel 6. It was a nice one, lots of families playing in the pool outside. The woman behind the desk seemed in tune with how depressing the whole thing was and tried to be comforting. “I have you in a room with a view of the pool!” she said brightly. Oh great, so I can hear all the happy families laughing and having fun, just enough to remind me of what I don’t have and how far from joy I really am.