Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller

Author:Mark Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

chapter tweleve

You know, if I were to die right now, in some fiery explosion, due to the carelessness of a friend, that would just be okay.

—SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS

I buried my mother on May 26, next to my father, in St. Vincent Cemetery. I received a number of phone calls, letters, and flowers. I responded to about half of them. On the morning of June 5 I left for San Jose to start training at a well-known gym there. My friend Paul Buentello was preparing for a big fight there, and I was flying out to help him. I was also flying out to get away from Pennsylvania, to get away from death. Little did I know, you really can’t outrun that shit.

Training in San Jose was awkward. I was surrounded by incredibly high-level athletes—some are now belt holders in various organizations—and there I was, barely coming back to train, thirty pounds lighter due to muscle loss, and a complete head case. I no longer slept. I was lucky if I got three hours of actual rest in a night. Most nights I would go on these walks and just . . . walk . . . all night. Otherwise I would end up lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, just swirling through my unbearable fucking existence, and sort of really get into being a complete misanthrope. I had created this entire fashionable character around my frozen core. I was an abysmal person. Amy hated me. That was fine by me, because I hated myself. I was running from every responsibility and shirking everything, and I couldn’t handle the sound of her demanding and disappointed voice anymore, so I just shut her out. I ignored her calls, which meant I didn’t talk to my sons very often. I just felt like I had no purpose or place. I had no idea who I was. God I was a miserable piece of shit. Because I wouldn’t sleep, I would frequently just pass out wherever I was. Sometimes on the mats at training, which really earned me the respect of the other fighters. Makes your training partners think a lot of you when you show up and give less than 50 percent. It didn’t help that everyone treated me like I was made of porcelain because of the scar, until one day when Paul Buentello, who was a huge Mexican heavyweight originally from Amarillo, Texas, and I were sparring. Paul was my closest friend out there and kept me going when I easily could have just slipped away. I still talked to Justin, but Justin expected more of me, wanted me to care about my life, my training, my health, and I just couldn’t live up to that. Not now. Paul let me be fucked up, but he also yanked me back in line before I went over the edge. Paul and I were moving around, and Danny Acosta, one of the greatest combat sports journalists out there, was sitting by

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