Self-Eulogy

Looking in the mirror is uncomfortable in the best of times. In some instances, it can be almost painful. People spurn those who exhibit the traits they find most unpleasant in themselves. A father will often land hardest on the son who most resembles him. Close self-examination, or the avoidance of it, is responsible for more pain than most would like to acknowledge. But, knowing oneself is important, especially when trying to find direction.

I’ve found that the most effective exercise for getting to the core of who you are is to imagine that, in short, this is it. If your existence as you knew it was over today, what words would be carved into your headstone? If you could write your own eulogy, what would you have to say about your time here? To say this exercise isn’t easy is a massive understatement. It’s not supposed to be.

The overwhelming majority of people would have regrets if faced with the end. It’s a rare individual who doesn’t, even after a long, mostly happy life. Imagine my unease at taking stock of things in my early twenties. Of course, one’s state of mind has a huge effect on how the exercise goes. My most scathing indictments of my own character and place in life at the moment are…unpleasant to look at. Objectivity is important here.

My self-assessment has very little to do with the people closest to me. I’m incredibly fortunate in that regard. My girlfriend of three years is one of the strongest people I know, and I’m lucky enough to call her my best friend. She’s the only one that I’ve ever been able to fully open up to. My mother has given me everything that she’s been able to, and more. My coach and surrogate father is the reason that I’ve been able to grow from a scared kid into a man. I think the word “friend” is overused nowadays, but I think I’ve been blessed with more than my fair share of true friends. I won’t name any names, but when they read this, they’ll know that I’m talking about them here. I owe everyone I’ve listed here more than I could possibly quantify or pay back.

This is about me. I know myself well enough to realize how restless I can be. Therefore, I may never be satisfied with my accomplishments. There will always be another book to write. Another fight to be won. When I’m too old to step through the ropes myself, there will always be another boxer to train. Life hasn’t been easy for me, so enduring some form of struggle day in and day out has become comforting in its familiarity.

I’m a writer and a fighter. Life wouldn’t feel complete for me without these pursuits.

My harshest assessment of myself is this; I’m half-assing it. Were this my last day, I know I wouldn’t be happy with the last words of remembrance spoken at my service. With the ability I have in certain areas, I should be much further ahead of where I am now. I know that many writers don’t publish their first book until middle or old age. And I know of a number of fighters who found combat sports later than I did, yet still became world champions. However, I’ve discovered my talents at a young age. I should be doing far more with them. I’m a writer who doesn’t write enough and a fighter who doesn’t fight enough.  Sparring and blogging don’t count. Period. Even in the fights that I’ve won, I’ve shown maybe 40% of my ability, and that was only in spots. And my output, even in my blogs, hasn’t been nearly high enough.

I need to fight more often because I know that I’m a champion.

I need to work on finishing my memoir and novel, because I know that a great number of people could benefit from reading them.

I owe those things to myself.

At best, I think I’ve already had an impact. However small, it’s still something that I should be proud of. Several people have reached out to me through Instagram, WordPress, and Facebook to tell me that my writing has had an impact in their lives. From close friends to people who decided to reconnect after reading and liking the message my words convey, to those I’ve never met and are only aware of me through my pieces published online. I’ll admit, I’ve saved all of those messages. I read them when I’m feeling hopeless; when I’m feeling that no publisher will touch my manuscripts. They’ve been invaluable. They’re the reason why I’m feeling driven to write this, when I could, and should, be sleeping.

Likewise, a number of my teammates and those close to me have gone out of their way to tell me that it’s been inspiring to watch how hard I work. It’s a compliment that I’m never prepared to hear. I know that, compared to almost all other fighters, my dedication and work ethic are a bit freakish. I just don’t ever consider that others take notice. It’s just something I do because I love to do it. Not just fighting. I find the preparation to do so cleansing; somewhere on the spectrum between redemptive and exhilarating.

Enough about accomplishments and aspirations. I think a far more telling aspect of a person’s life is the impression they leave on those closest to them. That said, I’ve learned some hard lessons from not giving enough of myself to both friends and family. Last year, when something told me to reach out to an old high school friend, I suppressed the urge. A month later, he took his own life. It wouldn’t have made a difference. When someone has made up their mind to end things, they’re going to do it. Maybe it would’ve been a small comfort to him.

My paternal grandmother who was, for all intents and purposes, a third parent to me throughout my childhood, passed away in August 2013. Due to the toxic and, at that point, the nonexistent relationship I had with my father, I hadn’t spoken to her in over eight months. Because of the scene I knew he would cause at the funeral service, I elected not to attend. I don’t know that I’ll ever shake the regret from that decision. I loved my father, even then. However, he was both a physically and mentally weak individual. I allowed him to project that onto me, and my fear of what might happen at the funeral overrode my ability to dictate my own course of events. The woman who, at times, was my only stable parental figure deserved my attendance.

 

Rosary beads from my grandmother’s funeral. 

 

Because of these occurrences, I’ve made a far more concerted effort to tell those closest to me exactly how important they are in my life. I’ve told many of them that I’d be there for them, no matter the circumstances, and I’d like to think that it’s made a difference.

The mind is everything, and that is where my problems reside. Instead of being hesitant to take fights, I need to jump in with both feet. I have all the ability in the world; I need to just turn my brain off sometimes and say “yes” to the opportunities in front of me. And, instead of waiting for “inspiration” to strike, and write more often. Sure, the pieces that I do write when I’m truly inspired are great. However, the time in between such pieces is far too great. Napoleon once said that “quantity has a quality all its own.” He was speaking of military strategy of course, but it’s applicable elsewhere. Journaling more often would help; similarly, to when I get a second wind in a fight, I may get a burst of creativity by writing and working through my intellectually flatter moments.

So, I think that, were I to write my own eulogy today, I would not be satisfied with my list of accomplishments or accolades. I know that funerals are much more about emotional closure for close family and friends, but in doing this, I’m taking stock of everything. The people who intimately know me, I think, would say that I’ve made a significant impact in their lives. I can always give more for them, and can always be more present, but I think I’m on the right track on that front.

Again, I haven’t written enough, and I haven’t fought often enough. At least I know how to correct this. I know I’ll never be satisfied with what I’ve done on both fronts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy. Quite the opposite, in fact. In my experience, one of the greatest sources of happiness is having a definite purpose. I’ll always have another opponent to fight, and another book to write. I find comfort in this realization. I’m already making a difference and am fortunate to have done so. It’s just a small taste of things to come.

~Sean Donnelly

 

Muhammad and Me

On June 3^rd, 2016, Muhammad Ali succumbed to his decades-long battle with Parkinson’s syndrome at the age of seventy-four. The news of his death was more sudden than shocking. People in their seventies who are afflicted with either variant of Parkinsonism are often seen to be on the decline. It was hard to view Ali in that light – as a normal human being. When he was hospitalized with respiratory complications on June 2^nd, the news caught many off-guard. But, this was Ali, and it wasn’t the first time he’d required such care in his later years. In less than twenty-four hours, he was gone. His condition steeply declined, and he passed away quietly, surrounded by family.

I cried when I found out about his passing. The flood of emotions that hit in that instant was unexpected, but in retrospect, made perfect sense. You couldn’t miss it; literally, every outlet was running a story on it.   More than a man, he was an idea. Or an ideal, whichever you prefer. Ali was a paragon of self-possession. If someone needed a blueprint for establishing one’s own identity, or for being unapologetically true to one’s own principles in the face of great resistance, they need only study the life that Muhammad Ali led. That’s what I did. I discovered boxing at the time in my life when I felt most isolated – during my senior year of high school and freshman year of college. Naturally, I discovered Ali’s life and trials at the same time.

I first laced up a pair of gloves on Saturday, January 28^th, 2012, at 1:00 PM. A crystallizing moment – I knew I was right where I was supposed to be. I’d never felt that before, and the self-assuredness that came with it was addictive. Muhammad Ali had turned seventy just eleven days prior, so many networks were still running his biopic – the one starring Will Smith – on repeat. That night, while I was still sore from working an entirely new set of muscles, I caught one of the screenings. It told the story of Ali, beginning when he won the heavyweight crown as the heavy underdog from the fearsome Sonny Liston in 1964, traversing the turbulent late 1960’s through the lens of Ali’s refusal to step forward in the draft, and ending with his epic knockout victory of George Foreman to regain his crown in 1974. Imagining the ending fight scene, overlaid with strains of “Tomorrow” by Salif Keita, still sends chills up and down my spine.

 

October 30th, 1974. Muhammad Ali shocks the world by knocking out George Foreman.

 

I immediately started watching his old fights, as I slowly progressed in the sport myself. Quite a few fighters have had movies made about them, whether they were major productions or not. However, Muhammad Ali is the only one out of that group who made the on-screen representation of his life look colorless and boring in comparison to the real thing. Will Smith did as good of a job as anyone could in portraying the man, but there’s only one Ali. Watching his fights against Frazier, Foreman, Liston, Norton, Patterson, Lyle, Cooper, Chuvalo, and many others, was breathtaking. He possessed speed like no other heavyweight, before or since. When he eventually slowed down to the point where he was getting hit, Ali also showed that he had a near-superhuman ability to take punishment. Yet, with all that skill, he was so much more than a mere athlete. George Foreman said it best, when speaking about his fight with the self-proclaimed Greatest of all Time, “Boxing was just something he did.”

That first year in boxing, I read everything about Muhammad Ali that I could find. It didn’t matter what it was – old Ring Magazine pieces, articles by George Plimpton, or the novels by Norman Mailer and Mark Kram – I devoured the pages by the hundreds. When I looked at Ali, I saw someone I could aspire to be like. Of course, very few fighters in the history of combat sports have ever come close to his level of success or ability, but the more I read, the more I realized for myself that there was so much more to him.

When I look back on who I was then, I realize that I needed that influence. The summer of 2012 was a crossroads in many ways for me. I was headed off to college in the fall and had absolutely no idea of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I had no concept of the fact that everyone else at that age feels similarly.

My first girlfriend, who I’d traded virginities with on prom night (yes, I know how cliched that is,) dumped me halfway through the summer. In retrospect, I think we were heading towards an ending anyway. However, the straw that broke the camel’s back was my non-attendance at a party that we were supposed to go to together. Late one afternoon in early July, I was scheduled to spar. I was a total novice and all of 163 pounds…and the only other fighter who showed up that day was a heavyweight. My trainer threw me in with no instruction on how to deal with a larger fighter and, as a result, I took the worst beating I’d taken to date. He all but threw me around the ring and ended it with four straight hooks to the head. Left-right-left-right. Two to each temple, and I finally took a knee. Truth be told, I think I could’ve taken more, but I knew I had to drive myself home afterward. It wasn’t a short trip, and I was seeing spots. I fought back the tears in front of my then-trainer, gritting my teeth all the while. When I got to my car, finally got a look at myself in the mirror. My head was pounding, and I couldn’t keep my vision in focus long enough to get a decent look at my face. Didn’t matter. I could feel the bruises and scrapes. I broke down on the drive home, and knew I couldn’t go to the party that night. I barely wanted to be around myself in that moment, much less a bunch of people I didn’t know. Physically, I could suck it up, but psychologically, I was a total mess.

I called my then-girlfriend on the way and told her that I wouldn’t make it. I tried to explain myself, but admittedly, didn’t do the best job of articulating where I was coming from. The next day, I was planning on calling her to promise to make things up to her when I got the “we need to talk” text. I really did love her, and I tried to tell her. I knew from early in the relationship, but could never say so, not even when I was faced with the end. I’d seen too much of the bad side of love in my parents’ marriage, and the words stuck in my throat when I tried to say them. To say that I choked on them is not hyperbole.

As minor of a relationship as it was in the scope of my life, that hurt worse than anything I’d previously experienced, and that pain lasted entirely through my first semester of college.

Soon after, I began to live with my father for a time. More out of necessity than anything. My mom was experiencing some financial difficulties, and we both knew that the only way I’d make it to my first year of college was with his help. He owed nearly $12,000 in back child support payments, and even with a job that paid six figures, getting him to pay what he owed weekly was like pulling teeth. Even when our relationship was at its best, as it was for those six weeks, we had almost weekly screaming matches. If it wasn’t that, then it would take a subtler form. Maybe a snide comment about being bruised after another sparring session, or about how I needed to make more friends. I hid from it by training obsessively. I was unemployed but still woke up before 6:00 AM to run, then spent two-plus hours a day at the gym.

That ordeal made me realize how lacking I was in self-confidence. The happiness I thought I was feeling was coming entirely from being in a relationship. I had no ability to self-validate or be content with myself. I didn’t know who I was, aside from the fact that boxing felt right for me. So, I looked at Ali’s life more closely. The brash confidence, living by one’s own principles, and discipline in all things. He was the only positive male role model I had at the time, and I had never even come remotely close to meeting the man. I feigned the confidence, occasionally going so far as to mimic his speech patterns. Laughable, I know. But, this was the pattern I followed for roughly two years until I was legitimately confident in myself. That finally happened the day I changed my name.

I had wanted to change my surname from Ostroski to Donnelly for years. From my father’s name, to my mother’s maiden name. I even had entire notebook pages filled with my revised signature. One day, after a year and a half of not having any contact with my father, I filed the paperwork with the town probate court. I didn’t care how my father felt. Muhammad Ali didn’t care how anyone felt when he changed his name from Cassius Clay, to Cassius X, to its final form. He just did it. It was his life, and he took it in his own hands.

 

Confidence: I faked it ’til I made it.

 

On August 3^rd, 2014, I became, legally, Sean Patrick Donnelly. Even though he loved me in his own way, I won’t pass on my father’s legacy, or name, to my children. This is my life, and I choose to live it as authentically as I possibly can. I haven’t looked back since that day. Not even when my father took his own life three days later. As painful as that was, I knew that allowing the weight of it to slow me down wouldn’t do anyone any good. Even if his meandering suicide letter implied that my non-contact and name change were to blame.

Muhammad Ali was far from perfect. The cruelty he showed to Floyd Patterson and Ernie Terrell in the ring after they refused to call him by his chosen name used to confuse and startle me a bit. However, changing my own name gave me a little perspective on that. For better or worse, I’ve had similar incidents; from an acquaintance who said, “I’ll just keep calling you ‘Ostroski.’ It’s easier to remember,” to a sparring partner who spoke poorly about my father’s suicide behind my back, I’ve had to protect the name I now carry. I calmly informed the former that his using my old name again would merit a physical response. The latter of the two paid for his words with a terrible beating in our next sparring session. There were witnesses present at both occasions so, thankfully, I haven’t been required to so since. It’s a principle that I very much live by. I have one name, and I’ll do anything required to protect it.

The day after Ali passed, there was a boxing card on HBO. All present observed a moment of silence, and a ceremonial ten-count to commemorate the life of boxing’s greatest ambassador. During his pugilistic career, Ali was involved in a record-setting six Fights of the Year (as awarded by Ring Magazine.) It was only fitting that the main event of the boxing card immediately following his death should live up to that standard. Orlando Salido vs Francisco Vargas may have ended in a draw, but I can guarantee that precious few of the spectators present that night in Carson, California, remember that. Much like Ali had done throughout the 1960’s and 1970’s, the fight left viewers feeling privileged to have bared witness.

He was a transcendent figure. I’m white, and was born thirteen years after his last professional bout, so the fact that I’ve been so inspired and molded by his life’s journey is simply remarkable. His influence has spanned across six continents and as many decades, to all demographics. At the end of the June 4^th, 2016 HBO fight broadcast, analyst Max Kellerman summed Ali up perfectly. “I’ve spent way too much of my life preoccupied with Muhammad Ali: watching him, listening to him, reading about him. I’ve seen him in crowds, and everyone looks at him like, ‘Muhammad, it’s me’.”

So many of us felt a personal connection to him. Out of all the other principles and lessons I took away from looking at his life, there is one story that stands out to me.

Ali was walking through Miami, where he trained and lived, with a friend. When they encountered a homeless man, Ali gave him some ridiculously large donation. The friend said something to the effect of, “You know he’s just gonna blow that on booze, right?”

Ali responded (I’m paraphrasing,) “That doesn’t concern me. If he wastes what I gave him, he’s the one who has to answer to himself and to god for it. At least I know that I tried to help him.”

That, more than any other account of his life, is the one that I’ve most tried to live by.

Happy birthday, champ. And thank you.

~Sean Donnelly

 

There was only one Muhammad Ali.

 

All That We Are

This may be the last memoir chapter I share publicly for a little while. Like all of the ones I’ve posted here and the two I put on my other blog, Puncher’s Chance, this one is intensely personal. It deals with my own struggle with depression which, again, is a growing problem in society at large, and must be spoken of openly. Sweeping it under the rug and treating it like some disease that you’ll catch if you so much as acknowledge its existence only makes those who are dealing with it feel more alienated than they already are. Thank you for reading.

---

There’s nothing romantic about being the best fighter no one has ever heard of. Or about being a good writer whose material not enough people have read. I have hundreds of pages written that I’m scared to publish, and have yet to perform up to my potential in the ring. I don’t know what the hell I’m afraid of. The best explanation I’ve been able to come up with is that I’m subconsciously holding back. If I don’t give one hundred percent, then I’ll still have an excuse if I fail. Or, maybe, I’ve trained myself to shut down – at least partially – during moments when action is most required of me. On the few occasions that I’ve read, or been required to read Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I always felt some kinship with the play’s protagonist. After all, Hamlet’s inability to act was his tragic flaw.

My life must look amazing from the outside. I’m blessed with talent in areas that I enjoy and have been lucky enough to discover them at a young age. My sparring partners, from the lowest amateur to the several established professionals, have paid me every imaginable compliment. I have everything going for me, but I can never quite put it all together when it counts. I perform maybe at thirty or forty percent of my potential and, even with that, I put on a clinic against UConn’s team captain. He barely hit me clean all fight long, and I couldn’t miss with my counter punches. It was like I was seeing everything in slow motion, and I was still not at my best. But I’ve still lost a lot of fights to guys who, quite frankly, aren’t on my level. Whenever I stop fighting, I don’t want to always wonder, ‘What could have been?’ And when I die, I don’t want my closest of kin to find multiple novels’ worth of unpublished work on my computer because I was too scared to follow through on it. It would be such a waste; I need to stop selling myself short.

Hamlet’s hesitancy to act was infuriating to read about, and yet, I understand it on a very deep level. I wish I could say differently, because that would mean that I’m not dealing with the same problem.

So how must it be for those closest to me to watch? Meiya, my mom, my coach. They’re all so supportive of me, even when I don’t perform to my abilities. But I always imagine them feeling the same. Being as disappointed in me as I am myself. So I allow that fear to fester and grow. It’s not a hole inside, whose existence I can cover up anymore. It’s morphed into a crushing burden that I carry everywhere. It drives me to a knee, then to the floor in a heap. I thought I was too smart for this to happen, but it finally caught up to me.

—

“It’s noon. I really should get out of bed. Be productive. Do something.”

“What’s the point? Why does it matter what you do?”

“I…I don’t know. I’m fresh out of answers. Nothing I do makes a difference. I have class in an hour…”

“Fuck it.”

“But…okay.”

“That’s right.”

“I have work today.”

“Call in sick.”

The idea of lying in bed for yet another day is both repulsive and inviting. I don’t feel anything as I look at the accumulating clutter around my room. I’m normally a clean person, but this is getting to be pretty disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with me… I’m barely eating anymore. Can’t even maintain a consistent train of thought. “I should really clean up this mess.”

“No. Stay in bed.”

“Fuck. You.”

“You’ll just end up like your friend did. Sooner or later…”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not making any compelling arguments as to why I should.”

I roll over and look at one of the Muhammad Ali posters that adorn my walls. Ali is standing defiantly over Sonny Liston. What would he think of this pity party? What was that famous quote of his? ‘Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.’ I force a chuckle, realizing that I’ve got the suffering part down. I sit up in bed.

“You haven’t been quiet in almost three years.”

“Your father’s suicide really got my attention.”

“Because of you, I’m not whole. I haven’t been since that day. If I could physically reach into my chest and rip you out, I would. Bodily pain is easy. That’s why fighting is easy for me…I should go for a run. I’d have a good reason to shower then.”

“Why?”

“I’m not letting you take me. You took my dad already. You took my friend last month. You’re not driving me down like you did them.”

“So naïve…”

“Maybe. But I have a choice. I always have a choice.” I throw one of the many tissues by my bedside into the garbage.

“We’ll see about that.”

I’m starting to pick up the dirty clothing and scattered papers which have totally obscured the area rug by my bed.

“What’s the point of all this, now?”

Ignore it. All the sleepless nights and listless days because of this motherfucking leach. I lie awake, stressed out about everything and nothing at the same time, then shamble through my days. Even when I try to write, nothing comes out. I’m not letting this thing rob me of my creativity, my vitality, or my figurative and literal will to fight anymore.

“Excuse me. I’m fucking talking to you.”

“Because what we do is all that we are.”

Silence.

“Because ultimately, no one gives a shit that I’m struggling. That I’m fucked up. They only see that I’m not going to class, that I’m calling out of work too often. That I’m not training. So what happens then?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you lie back down? Take a load off…?”

“Then my professors flunk me, and I get fired. My coach pulls me from my next fight. He cares, and would want to help, but his hands would be tied. So I’d be out of work and might not graduate if I don’t do something.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of me. You’ve always been a part of me, but if I have my way, you won’t always be.”

“So that’s it. You’re ‘all better’ now?”

I laugh. It’s the first audible noise I’ve made in I don’t know how long. It seems to echo off the walls. Maybe because I haven’t said a word in days… “No.”

“I don’t follow.”

“No. I’m not all better. Far from it. I still feel lost. I still don’t see how it will get better. I still have no real will to do anything that I used to enjoy. But…I still do want to be happy. I can’t find that hiding under my covers like some sniveling little kid who thinks there are monsters under his bed.”

“We’ll see.”

“I guess we will, but you don’t own me. You owned my father. You owned my grandmother. You do not fucking own me.” My fists are balled. My eyes are boring a hole in the rug in front of me. “You won’t run me into the ground like you’ve done to past generations of my family. I won’t pass you on to my kids, like my father did to me. They won’t even know that you ever existed.”

—

So I shower. I get dressed. I go through the motions. It’s already four o’clock. I’ve missed all of my classes. Again. The day isn’t all lost though. I can take a baby step towards sanity. I can leave my apartment. I put my headphones in my ears and try to tune out some of the inescapable noise in my head. I press play, and Eminem’s “When I’m Gone” resumes, already in the middle. “I look up, it’s just me standin’ in the mirror. These fuckin’ walls must be talkin’, ’cause man I can hear ’em.”

Same, Em.

I stand at the door to my apartment, place my hand on the knob.

And turn.

End

~Sean Donnelly