the paradox of therapy

Therapy, counseling, treatment. Call it what you will, as the basic idea stays the same: an admission that somewhere along the way, something ceased working properly, placing you in a chair or couch, pouring out emotions you usually wouldn’t in front of a stranger. Though not yet fortunate enough to be able to afford the kind of therapist that owns [what I have convinced myself must be] a comfortable couch, I’m a veteran of sobbing in front of strangers within minutes of meeting them.
“I...I just...I’m just...” The tears start to dribble and leak out of my eyes, gravity threatening to pull liquid snot from my nostrils in thin ropes onto my lap. Horrified anew at my own frail grasp on mental clarity, sanity, and lack of crying etiquette, I apologize. “I’m sorry,” I say to someone who I am fully aware is professionally bound to pretend to care about the petty problems that I claim are swallowing my life. I say this as I liberally help myself to their tissues without asking, as if those two flimsy words, overused by assholes everywhere, could possibly redeem me.

The paradox of therapy, I have learned, is not that everyone goes [therefore rendering the implication that therapy is only for the psychologically broken or askew, moot], but that it makes one prone to paranoia, thus creating a set up for more therapy. It starts at the reception area, where I wonder whether there’s some hidden test in which magazine I might pick up from the coffee table. Am I superficial and inclined towards eating disorders if I pick up the trashy fashion magazine? Left-wing intellectual if I pick up the New York Times? Where does this local business magazine fall on this imaginary mental scale? Instead I choose to twist the scarf in my lap, trying to act comfortable with bored isolation. People stare out into space all the time when there’s a perfectly entertaining issue of The Economist lying within 2 feet of them, I tell myself, because by this point it’s too late to get up and pick up the magazine. The therapist might be out any minute, and no one wants to get caught in that moment after a reading choice has been made only to have to put it down before you can sit down again. It makes the person picking up the publication feel awkward, and [presumably] the therapist feel guilty for being on time. So the time between arrival and appointment is stared down in an affected blasé demeanor, while I try not to focus on how crazy my therapist will think I am this time.
This incessant back and forth - the mental pendulum that swoops and swings between worrying about what my therapist thinks of me and reassuring myself that she’s voluntarily chosen her profession and thus proximity to individuals like me - is characteristic of the paradox of therapy. Much like the misleading label of “therapy” itself, which implies some goal or end point. To anyone with a fully functioning head on their shoulders, the assumption that a remedy for a loopy mind would follow any sort of linear path is probably irrational. To those with impaired psyches, however, it makes perfect, illogical sense: pay for enough professional cry-fests and eventually enlightenment in the form of emotional stability, balance, and resilience will ensue. Or so goes the uncharacteristically optimistic hope.
And though my brain might not be wired right [then again, whose is?], it’s not so abnormal to hope that a linear progression towards a defined goal can actually exist in life. There seems to be a fairly steady increase in exhibited bitchiness right before I get my period; why couldn’t the same type of escalating growth apply to other, more appealing aspects of my life? I’ve been told the same can be said for riding a bicycle: do it enough times and you’ll improve. Maybe just a little bit, but enough to plot the beginning of an upward linear vector.

But if the state of my mental health mirrors my ability on a bike, improvement has remained either elusive, invisible, or both. My frustration is apparent enough to my therapist [what did I do? How did she know?] who continues to tell me to give myself a break once in a while. It’s reassuring to hear, but like most things in therapy, it also gives rise to the opposite sentiment of extreme stress. Breaks sound nice, but without a fire under my ass to keep me perpetually on my toes, I fear that I’ll ultimately lose something I love dearly. That I’ll somehow forget how to get dressed to head out for a ride. I’ll take it easy this month, I might convince myself, as my bicycles gather dust. Or I’ll turn around at the base of a hill telling lying to myself that I’ll do it tomorrow, or next time, for sure. Mental balance might be nice when it comes to the rest of my life, but it hints at staying a terrible cyclist.
For that reason, I was rolling away a few days ago, before anyone should really be awake, much less on the rollers. No sprinting, just rolling easy, but struggling nonetheless. Maybe this isn’t enough, I thought momentarily even as my empty stomach churned in protest. No, but it is, the other side of my schizophrenic brain reassured me, because who in their right mind voluntarily rides rollers before work, with only a cup of coffee to fuel them? The mental battle fizzled away slowly as the loss of sensation in my butt turned to sharp pain, but whispers of it came back later. And I know it’s going to, even when bright sun and the outdoors can snatch my attention away from a pair of paradoxically weak yet heavy legs.
But in a way, I take solace in the swinging between extremes of which I am expert, be it in therapy or riding. It’s an uncomfortable ride, sometimes prone to motion sickness and emotional instability, but the motion of sweeping from one end of the spectrum to the other also sends me through, however briefly, a middle ground. That perfect point between failing and succeeding, when nothing is felt but maybe a dose of sun and a wisp of wind, when the asphalt seems to both melt away and hold you up. In those short moments, I switch to my big ring and let out my inner Tatianna Guderzo; my version of throwing rocks at Schrödinger’s cat.

claritin for wind allergies

Sent a few days ago from Josh, this [especially the part at 0:48] has kept me riding on [what is for me] windy days:

[Note: the music is an acquired taste. You might want to mute your computer if you're in a public place.]

the red hook crit

If you ride a track bike in New York City, and you have a pulse, you’ve probably heard of the Red Hook Crit: track bikes only with no brakes, raced in the middle of the night. What you probably don’t know is that this year it's going to be more awesome than usual. So awesome, in fact, that I am seriously considering putting off my usual old person bed time of 10.30pm to attend.

This year, G+D is not only a sponsor, but also the exclusive retailer for Red Hook Crit t-shirts, and leading the EMS Group Ride to Red Hook on Saturday night. So basically you can go to one guy to both dress you for and lead you to the event. What's more, I folded those shirts, so you will be purchasing vicarious contact with the triple whammy of G+D & Red Hook Crit & Pedalstrike!

But I digress. Come cheer on the racers this Saturday night before wrapping up the morning hours partying with like-minded bike people in Red Hook.
Because this is what riding a track bike in New York City is all about.

public vomiting and solitary riding

A few nights ago, I woke up to uncomfortable stomach pain. In the hour that followed, I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet, hurling out half-digested food and bile with the gusto I usually reserve for rides or make-out sessions. Crouching in front of the toilet with a bathmat underneath my legs to pad my knees, it was the first time in my life that I have vomited in solitude.
I understand this admission risks leading to the assumption that my life thus far has been unusually coddled and sheltered. Such is not the case; my public vomiting has always been a thing of choice. Like a shameless cry for help and pity that was not so much aural as visual and olfactory, I have thrown up the remnants of soup onto the hallway floor, mussels and oysters into plastic bags in the kitchen, and [the only time I made it to a porcelin receptacle] a mixture of nachos and Grey Goose into my sister’s toilet. Each time, there was someone within vomiting earshot. Someone who came running and either held my hair, the plastic bag, or offered to clean up the mess. I never flinched [even in hindsight] at how readily I accepted their offers of help. In fact, I found comfort in this, and could not understand why, when my sister threw up in her own room one day, she refused to accept my offer to clean it up, going so far as to tinge her rejection with a threat of physical harm should I so much as even try.
That night I threw up alone, through sweaty nausea, I wished for once that I had a room mate. This was a preference that, under normal circumstances, would have been immediately dismissed. I view living alone as not only a necessity but a sign that I have grown out of the phase where lack of sufficient income forces one to make the less than optimal choice to live with a person one is not simultaneously sleeping with. In school, I justified my comparably indulgent living situation as critical for academic success [or, failing that, at least an academically optimal environment]. At present, lacking any income and thereby opening myself up to be labeled as a hypocrite, I rationalize my aversion to sharing common living areas with other people as solitude suffered for the greater good. A benevolent, selfless act undertaken to assure that any potential room mates will never be subject to my slovenliness, bad cooking, or terrible music; and that I in turn, will never have to execute passive aggressive countermeasures based on suspicions that a stranger is partaking of my condiments.

This self-awareness of my own flaws - however limited - also extends to my riding. Fully conscious that I pose a significant danger to those around me due to my lack of bike handling skills, I primarily ride alone. Despite how comfortable I may be with my solitary riding, when people hear this, they feel compelled to comment. “You’re never going to get better riding alone,” some say, as they look me up and down, expecting me to rise to the challenge. Others misinterpret the information as fishing for an invitation: “I’ll totally ride with you! We need to ride together,” they’ll say. The philathropic offers are appreciated, but I’m also blessed with friends who don’t tend to follow up. They leave me to ride alone, pedaling towards that day when I might be able to sit in calmly without the fear that I will most certainly kill the person riding next to me.
“But you always say how much you hate riding alone,” Mike says. And to his credit, I have at times expressed a desire to have company that is more tangible than Kanye’s voice. Fortunately, Mike actively attracts group rides, so I get to hear all about them. “We were supposed to leave at 9:30, but so-and-so was running 15 minutes late. Then he really wanted coffee so we ended up leaving around 10:15.” Call me an ass but even the thought of hanging around an extra 45 minutes - precious extra pillow time when you’re talking about a Sunday morning - chafes harder than wearing men’s chamois shorts. I love my friends, but few would be worthy of such cleat-tapping tardiness. “And then some of the guys were just hammering,” Mike might add, in between complaining about the pain still running around his legs. I shake my head in pity, my relaxing solo ride challenging, but still safely within the confines of “fun.”

The irony is that recently, these solitary rides are catching up with me. My lone figure seems to invite invitation to join a paceline more times than I’m actually comfortable with, demands to stay on a wheel or take a pull to close a gap inevitably follow. Tests to see how well I can hold a line ensue, as I secretly thank my non-parabolic rollers. My visions of casual riding in the little ring go the way of Cavendish’s chances of a win in Milano-San Remo post-crash as I drag a stranger up to his friends or vice versa. Blame it on too much Kanye, or too easily bending to perceived flattery [“do they really think I can keep up?”]; a feeling of perverse guilt and obligation consistently keeps me from waving them off in a polite “no, thank you.” “Riding alone,” is quickly becoming “riding alone until someone decides to pace me, drag me a few miles on their group ride, or otherwise cause me unnecessary pain.”
With my history of relative reclusiveness, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that I resent these charitable strangers. But much like how the stark loneliness of vomiting in solitude only comes into focus after a lifetime of public retching, to be caught up in a group ride that is not your own, then dragged along for a portion of it, makes the solo ride a peculiar anomaly. An activity that one might not pursue so adamantly after a few moments of proximity to other, real-life cyclists. I think about this, sometimes, as I pinch my tires and put on my shoes, coiling my right earbud around my helmet strap. There are questioning thoughts about tardy friends who like to paceline aggressively and all the group rides I’m not trying. I try to want those things as I swing my leg over my saddle, heading out alone, wondering who I’ll meet today.

empathy and earthquakes

I remember the Kobe earthquake that crumpled up a city on January 17, 1995. Though safely esconced in Tokyo at the time, it was - until a few days ago - the worst natural disaster that had occurred in Japan in my lifetime.
Day after day, we read in the newspaper and saw on the news the tragedy compounded. Over fifteen years later, a single picture is brought to the fore when I think of massive earthquakes and the physical and psychological wounds they bring with them. A highway overpass [a segment of the Hanshin Expressway] had broken at its cement base, sliding over to lean on the asphalt below. A lone truck lay overturned, scattering its cargo of bright mandarin oranges, a fist-sized fruit ubiquitous in Japanese winters.
The images I will remember from the Sendai earthquake are not so much those of concrete rubble, but of empty, wet land where buildings once stood, and the aerial view of the Fukushima nuclear reactor. When Mike woke me up to inform me that a 9.0 magnitude earthquake had rocked the northeastern coast of Japan on Friday night, I was unaware of the panic that would eventually settle around me, breaking apart the security of my life like so many nuclear atoms. A tsunami followed, leaving [what else?] devastation in its wake, but fires seemed contained. I called my parents in Tokyo; and believing the worst was over, headed out for a ride on Saturday morning.

I could tell you that riding that day was a “way to cope,” or that I felt a need to “connect with my community during a time of tragedy,” or any number of bullshit things that it wasn’t. Riding that day was a purely selfish act, permitted by my oblivion to the circumstances. Like many, I naively believed that it couldn’t possibly get worse, that the tragedy had played out, and finished. After all, earthquakes are a part of life if one lives in Japan; a fact almost self-consciously reflected in the nation’s policy towards providing humanitarian relief to other nations which suffer similar natural disasters. Indiscriminate in its rampage, the fear of earthquakes binds the Japanese people together in acknowledged vulnerability. They have the inexplicable power to pull people’s heads out of their asses, to hit the pause button on the self-centeredness so prevalent in my peaceful, militarily emasculated country.
Which is why I am sure, had I been in Tokyo, my reaction would have been equally self-indulgent: “it’s Saturday, time to ride.” After all, it took two roofs blowing off a nuclear reactor for the realization to settle in that things were potentially far more serious. That things weren’t yet finished. Since then, with three reactor blasts in the last four days, “terrified” is an understatement. With the nuclear plant on the brink of a meltdown, food and bottled water are becoming scarce in Tokyo as grocery stores are cleared out. Scheduled, three-hour black outs are in effect in parts of the city to save energy, as radiation levels in the atmosphere increase. “Call me paranoid,” my sister said, “but I bought a Geiger counter for Mom and Dad.” We watched the news helplessly as another 6.4 magnitude earthquake rocked Shizuoka prefecture early Tuesday morning.
And though currently residing on the other side of the world, in a country fairly inexperienced in the field of earthquakes, I still expected from others the selfless empathy that I associate with major earthquakes in Japan. What I saw instead was corporate marketing thinly disguised as “humanitarian relief efforts.” “[Corporate/Celebrity name]’s [noun] for Japan,” is becoming a morbid Mad Libs joke; a depressing reminder that in the end, natural disasters are ideal vehicles for feel-good PR. With each attempt to aid coupled with an obligatory fist pump towards a profit seeking entity, a self-interested conclusion became increasingly difficult for me to ignore. I rolled my eyes at Lady Gaga’s bracelets for Japan [not only because of the evidently lax use of the verb “design” in that context], but the Rapha Rides for Tohoku hit a little closer to home.
For to go out on a bike ride in Japan, at a time of such uncertainty and loss, and in the face of a potential nuclear crisis, annhilates my own belief in Japanese empathy. It encourages the navel-gazing that I thought could not co-exisit with natural disasters taking place on Japanese soil, the very characteristic that one must forget at the doorstep in order to begin rebuilding a devastated region. Though compassionate in theory, a charity ride in Japan evokes too much apathy in practice, so much more so as the crisis continues to unfold. To ride, then, seems to exhibit a conscious indifference to those still searching for their family members or pulling out the perished. And as a Japanese person, I know that no matter how altruistic the stated cause, no matter how much money could potentially be raised, riding a bike in Japan at a time like this is something I simply cannot do.
It is a deeply personal choice. Perhaps one that some may say is misguided or too rigid. It is, however, one in line with my own convictions, and one that, I hope, attests to my own capacity for compassion and empathy.

keirin: speed racers

Time to kick back with some Kirin [beer] and keirin:
[Video available here.]
Via Nowness and Mr. G + D