Finding Purpose

I vow to myself that I will make this count, even though I've gotten in the habit of running away. As much as that's how it seems, I can assure you that I agonized over the decision to part ways with the AWF. I haven't felt right since, like I've been rubbed raw and the simplest touch is gonna finish what was started, is going to render me useless and motionless and obsolete for good. What's that called now? Cancel Culture?

Sure.

I'm cancelled.

Max Ironside, the guy who can't buy a clue to save his life, has been expired and tossed out with the bloody bathroom waste – literally. A bloody tampon got shoved in the mouth of my wife and I was supposed to laugh that off? To call it brilliant and accept graceful defeat? 

I walked away. Cut that loss and it cut me and now I can't sleep. I can't find a way to rationalize how fucked up this year has become and I'm worried that I'm either going to explode into a million useless pieces on the floor when the next person tries to touch me, or I'm going to take out a city block like a nuke. Could go either way and I can't shut down, I can't sleep. Further down the rabbit hole we go.

I keep reading all the things in the comments sections on the matches of mine that are posted online. Some people are great. Some say I've inspired them. They say I'm amazing. That I've given them hope that they can accomplish something and here I am, twitching in the fetal position, unable to stop filling my brain with negativity like I need to poison myself.

Let them call me names. Shouldn't matter, right? I'm getting paid the big bucks. 

I have a contract. I'm coming into this place as a relative unknown and it hurts to say that. Eleven years says you should know my name. It says I don't belong in that category. Self-doubt slaps me back into place with a nice backhand borne of nostalgia. It's getting worse. It's getting harder, and I'm getting older and far more desperate each time the sure thing falls through. APW is a proven commodity.


Should be happy but my smile keeps slipping and I find myself watching Robin Williams on talk shows from ten years ago, recognizing kin. I see pain in his eyes, behind the manic slip from one joke to the next impression – I get it. It's all on the inside, the wounds that never heal and she called me broken. Coral Rose said I deserve nothing more than pity. 

Is she right? 

I wonder how much that really matters in the grand scheme of things?

I'm feeling too much right now. I keep getting blindsided by these ancient tracks on my playlist and they just leave me reeling and wondering how I could be so clueless for so long? And I guess part of that is human nature, isn't it? Everything always passes through that internal filter and Max-colored lenses aren't necessarily the same hue as Vinny-tinted, if you're picking up what I'm trying to put down. You never know someone until you walk a mile in their shoes.

Don't.

Mine won't get you where you need to go.

Rayna Ironside woke up in the middle of the night, feeling strangely out of sorts. It took her a few minutes to shake off the fog of sleep, to figure out what had pulled her from a weird dream that was already fading away.

"I had the weirdest..." the words trailed off as she reached out, touching nothing but the cold mattress next to her – for the fifth night in a row, Max wasn't in bed with her. Troubled, she threw off the covers and got out of bed, shivering as her feet touched the cold hardwood floor. She didn't bother with the lights. They'd lived here long enough now that she could navigate without help and she made her way down the hall to the spare bedroom that doubled as her craft room and her husband's makeshift studio. No surprise that she found him there, eyes hidden behind the blue glow of his computer screens reflecting off his glasses. He was oblivious to her presence, scrolling through some internet message board on one monitor while the other played footage of some old wrestling match. The slump of his shoulders, the way he leaned on the desk told her far more than she wanted to know about what he was up to. She didn't have to wonder what he was reading. He'd been punishing himself for weeks, scouring the internet for mentions of his own name, ever since Coral Rose had told him that he was nothing more than a joke, nothing more than an object of pity to the majority of the wrestling industry.

She knew, from his own accounts, just how hard it had been for him to break through. For him to even find reputable companies that wanted to work with him and she'd done a little of her own digging to see the degradation he'd endured trying to break through that glass ceiling. She'd watched him broken and bloodied, bashed with fluorescent light tubes and thrown through tables. She'd seen him choked with a dog collar and chain and had felt sympathy pains for the impact of the botched move that had almost killed him back in 2010.

The sight of him now, hunched over, dejected and broken down like this made her heart ache for him. Saying nothing, she walked over and rested her hand gently on his shoulder.

"Max," her voice came out soft, "honey, it's late. Come to bed?"

"Not tired," he didn't look away from the screen – he sounded exhausted. He sounded like he hadn't slept a wink in weeks and when he finally turned towards her with a sigh, she could see the dark circles under his eyes when he took off his glasses and set them aside on the desk. "Go on without me," he said finally, unaware that she'd already been in bed for hours without him. Time had grown slippery over the last couple days, the depression digging in so deep.

"I did," the words came out in an oddly choked whisper as she lifted her hands up to cup his face. Her thumbs caressed his cheeks gently. "Max, I'm going to tell you something and I need you to listen to me, okay? I need you to hear me, loud and clear. Are you listening to me?" Her voice was firm, firmer than usual with him.

"Yeah, sure." Expecting the worst, he tried not to telegraph it, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he tried to remember to breathe. "What's up, Bunny? Did I do something wrong?"

"Of course not." The words came out quickly, not wanting him to think she was upset with him. "Just... I need you to talk to me." He hadn't opened up to her about what had been eating at him. "Please?"

As quickly as he'd met her gaze, his eyes skittered away again and he lifted his good hand up to his face, scratching the stubble on his cheeks. "What's there to talk about? I mean, really. I've lost every match I had in SRW. Sure, Luther Thunder and Chris Styles were nice to me afterwards, shook my hand and told me it was great – but that was just pity, right?" He couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone, "what a waste."  

It broke her heart to hear him sound so bitter. He'd always been so positive, so upbeat. He'd never closed himself off like this before. "It absolutely was not pity." Rayna lowered herself so that she was kneeling in front of him, her hands resting on his knees. "You're so talented, Max."

"You don't have to say that." When his blue eyes met hers again, she could see the depths of pain reflected there. "In fact, kinda wish you wouldn't."

"I'm only telling the truth." She would never believe he was anything other than amazing who always did his best. "You know you can always talk to me, right?" She trailed off for a moment. "Like tonight, for instance?"

"There's no point." He shrugged, "then we're just gonna go around in circles. I'll say I suck. You'll tell me that assholes were wrong. Nothing will change. I'll continue to feel like a failure. So, can we just skip the whole affirmations part of it? I can't..." his voice broke and he shook his head, eyes downcast again. "I don't wanna go off on you. Okay?"

She felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck at his words. She felt as though she were on a minefield and it reminded her far too much of her childhood. Nothing she'd said then was ever right, at least not according to them. "Say no more," she mumbled tonelessly, getting up. "Don't stay up too late." The last thing she'd wanted was to throw up that shield she thought she didn't need anymore, but it was automatic.

Max blinked, stunned when he saw her shut down, that look of dismay there for an instant before the light in her eyes seemed to go out and he reached out with his good hand, slipping to his feet and catching her wrist as she turned away. "Hey!" His voice came out sharper than intended and he bit his lip. "Y-you..." he stammered, "that's not what I meant. Don't want you to go."

"I know," she forced a smile. She'd have gotten away with it too if he didn't know her so well. "But you're right: I barged in here like an asshole and you don't owe me anything. I'm so sorry."

Leaning in, she placed a peck on his cheek; the moment her lips touched his skin, he felt the walls crumble. His eyes welled with tears and he grabbed her, feeling a wash of shame at the weakness even as he hugged her tight. He needed to buy a few more seconds before he had to see that look in her eyes that terrified him. Was compassion and unconditional love really that different from feeling sorry for him, from feeling pity? The darkness in his head kept insisting that it was the same, that she'd eventually wise up and look at him as though he was someone that nobody in their right mind would want hanging around. He didn't realize he was sobbing, that he was clinging to her until he heard a sound that startled him – it had come from his own lips.

She held him close, feeling him shaking even as she tried to hold back her own tears. It wasn't about her, not in this moment. "It's okay to let it out, Max."

"I just want-" the words stuck in his throat; the rest of the sentence choked off. He wanted to be taken seriously, without having to second-guess every interaction. He wanted to win a championship. He wanted to be inducted into a hall of fame. He wanted to be looked at as a peer, as an equal. He wanted to do it on his terms, prove them all wrong – stop being looked at as less-than and lacking. The word-vomit kept coming, his voice muffled against her hair and it was like wishing on a star. It felt silly and he felt embarrassed and drained when the words dried up just as the tears did.

Rayna took a step back, lifting her hand to gently touch his cheek. "You will. I know it... I feel it in my bones... then they'll see how stupid they were to have ever doubted you."

He wished he could believe her.

He didn't.