There is something so alluring about mystery yet so torturous about unknowingness. Not identifying who is real, I find myself constantly recognizing how unrecognizable familiar faces can become.
Context: I’ve always had ups and downs. And creativity came with it, like a gift wrapped in gold in exchange for my grief. Boxing is just like painting. I became a better artist when I realized that having no control gave me complete control. And ever since then my work has been different. More fluid and potent. Stronger. Better. And as I learn to box I realize that I want to obtain that same creativity energy in fighting that I use while making art. About two and a half years ago I started boxing. I was involved with a man on and off for a decade. He was very mentally ill. It was not a good relationship. I tried to help him. Over the years it got worse. One night we had a bad argument. Three days later he was found dead. He committed suicide.* The pain was unbearable and I fell apart. A few months later I started boxing. I had to put these emotions somewhere. I had to do something different and something extreme. And although I was still painting and drawing, it wasn’t enough. So I started boxing. The more I boxed, the better I felt. I started training six days a week. I started feeling the best that I’ve ever felt. I opened my arms and fully embraced this pain without fear. This pain was making me stronger. I started competing after one year of training and won my first fight. So now I am a boxer and an artist.
*The accepted term according to suicide prevention experts is “die by suicide" because the word "commit" attributes criminal intent around the act of suicide.