I am trying to break your heart – Nietsche

“ our healthcare system is dystopian if you get hurt in America, you better make sure you get hurt real bad. Bad enough to meet your deductible ideally in January so you’re covered for the year.”

-Sheng Wang

There are moments in life that will forever change you.

A lover says I don’t love you anymore, a job says we don’t need you anymore, a parent or a sibling die, a temple turns out to be a business, a group of friends turns into a cult, or a friend turn out to not ever really know you/ treasure you.

There are subtle moments that don’t make your Wiki biography that stack up like dirty laundry in your mind. For me, getting hit in the head the other day turned out to be a life-changing event.

The day was like any other. I was doing my daily kung fu warm-ups and exercise, trying to get my health back in shape after working too many years at a desk job. After losing that job, losing myself, I tried to answer with discipline. I think it was a response in strength? I found work that aligns with my values, I found work that has boundaries. I found a bunch of jobs that pay less and don’t have full-time bennies. Even so, I reignited my passion. Making artwork, building some culture landmarks, if only for my quality of life.

I wanted to share this with the world. I wanted to not just thrive, but build cultural community. We all need more like-minded people, why not rally around beauty? Building our health? Being humble and frugal? I started focusing on content creation in my free time. So I was doing my daily warm-ups with only 30 minutes before I had to get to one of my half-jobs. I thought I had plenty of time to lift weights and share an Adam-post; like the blog-influencers recommend doing (daily?) And that’s when the weight slipped off my used weight bench and the squat rack hit me square in the head.

The last couple of years was spent rebuilding myself. Explaining myself to friends and family, reassuring them that I was eating. That I was fine, reassuring interviewers that I was laid off and not fired. Reassuring the public that I wasn’t a failure, a flight risk, a workplace philanderer, a drug user, came crashing down towards my head. I was reminded I either need to be not hurt, or really hurt so that my insurance would cover the cost without bankrupting me. I’m already paying over 6% of my monthly income for private insurance, only through the ACA thank you Obama. Thank you when government gives a shit about working people and delivers on promises.

Somehow, we are still beholden to the bankers. In our life and death the bills still come. In our lives, unseen waves of bankers make our work obsolete, our tastes more expensive, our vacations more grand, our backyards temples to the overtime. Our families and relationships will suffer and pay for the overtime. In that moment, when the weight hit me in the head I was furious at the bankers and mad at myself for doing what I said I would never do: Risk my life, for money for status. Run recklessly to feel like I am worthy of people‘s attention or approval. My health was in danger, I had overused my time and body, and I hadn’t dealt with the betrayal of my last job and loss in recent years.

I’m not angry, at least I’m not furious, not craving revenge. I am disappointed, all of the work to get to this point has gotten me to a blessed safe place, and I should be grateful. Instead, I think about needing to reinvent myself at 40, I compare myself to my peers, I look at this world on fire and in starvation. In dirty water, and plastic in our bodies, and I know the quality of all of our lives would be better with a handful of simple choices. Putting the weakest among us, the oldest among us, the strangers among us… Putting those lives on the same level as our lives. Putting the future of kids on the same level as our comforts, our work, would just make everyone’s lives better. I am tired of supporting bankers, and their short term profit cheats over my skull, over my stability, Over our peace.

The disappointment was metallic. My emotions were cold steel. Was my headache a concussion, needing a $60 doctor co-pay? Or could I ice my head and tell my girlfriend to watch me, stave off sleep? Was my effort to post more and engage with this world worth it? Worth risking my health? Worth sharing my story and who I am? Or will the bankers pull the plug on our culture next? On our achievements next? When it gets in the way of our last few hundred bucks to squeeze and pass to the billionaires?