Age of Innocence IV: Perspective
Jan 23, 2022 11:44:52 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, CJ Phoenix, and 5 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Jan 23, 2022 11:44:52 GMT -5
Winning the World Championship was the proudest moment of my life. The gavel pounding, the fans screaming - Alex Richards carrying Dandy DiVito back to the locker-rooms in his arms. Seriously. For a moment, time stood still. Erasing every worry that kept me caged, and in that instant, I was free. Those moments are fleeting - especially in a highly-competitive, highly-combustible industry such as wrestling. The greatest flock to the greatest company in the world - despite what C-list has-beens like Chris Page say - so standing as the standard-bearer in front of nine-million weekly, it can be overwhelming. Your spirit can be so delicate. At any moment, the detractors take a scalpel to the legacy you’ve carved, slice out every misstep, every failure, every regret - and magnify them. Dig out a mausoleum, a catacomb for lost Hope, and invite everybody to point, laugh, criticize and beat down someone who’s been beaten down enough. The same bullshit - over, and over, and over - just spewed from a different asshole. And a weaker person would succumb. They would run for the hills. I did that with my stint in GCWA. I thought I needed validation. And the weakest person allows those lingering thoughts of inadequacy to permeate their soul, and cut so deep that she becomes a monster entombed with scar tissue who can’t look herself in the mirror. Constantly reminded of what was once so permanent and unfixable, all of the emotional turbulence rattling your brain until it manifests into physical torment in order to feel anything else. You need it, just to live another day - if you even wanted to. I did that, too. Pride is fluctuating. It’s a fickle bastard, and it’s so disorienting. It unbalances the universe, sometimes on a week-to-week, match-to-match basis. You can’t commit to happiness and stability when you have devils and angels tugging you in either direction - one side amplifies your imperfections while the other side shields you from them. Hides you from them - silences them - apologizes for them - justifies them - and you're burdened with a crutch, unable to stand on your own. They are both similarly detrimental. Because if you allow the negativity to take hold, you’re doomed before you even begin. But if you find reprieve and guidance from those who want to distance you from the battles you’ve endured and the scars engraved in your armor, you risk never learning the lessons you should’ve learned to begin with. I was eleven minutes early to my appointment. ‘Ma had encouraged me to see a new therapist; a professional in the city who was not contracted by Action Wrestling, who was not privy to the prevailing knowledge of the emotional collapse of Lissie Hope. My story was so public, so documented, that everyone and their fucking mother had something unsolicited to say - psychoanalysis from Johnny Bacchus, publicly scrutinized by Matt Knox, and of course, Max Daemon pulling on my goddamn pigtails thinking it’ll endear me to him - so it would be refreshing, and even good for me, to hear a rational, fresh, unbiased perspective. “Dr. Setzler will be with you soon, Elisabeth,” the pretty receptionist assured me. She stood from her chair, towering over me; a head full of long, silky hair that made me paw at my own discolored, frayed edges. Years of bleaching and coloring my curls marking each new development in my chaotic life had begun to wear on the foundation of my roots. I pulled on a few strands as I watched her serve me a cup of black coffee. Her nametag read Cory. “There’s cream and sugar in the corner.” I nodded my head and pulled my legs up onto the sofa. My hand tremored – maybe frozen from the unbearably cold afternoon - and I spilled a little coffee on the table. Embarrassed, I quickly pulled my sleeve over my hand to soak up the spillage, and I caught a glance of the title-story of a magazine on the table. - The Demise of American Orphanages - I was immediately reminded of what I’d told Max two weeks ago, about how I could respect his parents for having him despite being… special…. and now here it was in the flesh, art imitating life (coincidentally, this was something I’d told Sam last week, too). I couldn’t help myself, and I began to laugh inexplicably - Cory must've thought I was fucking psychotic for giggling uncontrollably to an article about parentless children. “What’s so funny?” she asked me, curiously. But I couldn’t articulate an answer. I covered my mouth with my hands, and she nervously began typing on her computer, puzzled. The absolute absurdity of this scene - as if it was penned by Woody Allen. I almost expected Gerard Angelo himself to appear as my charming and good-looking therapist who I’d spend half the script salivating over - y’know, the kind of inappropriate relationship that is almost forgotten about due to Woody’s saccharine wit. “Dr. Setzler is ready for you,” Cory said, as I bounced up from the chair, eager to begin I stepped into his office - he stood to greet me. He was short, and hunched over - but the contours of his face and with a healthy hairline, I had no doubt he once could’ve rivaled any Hollywood star from Matthew McConaughey to Ryan Reynolds. He was kind-looking, and gentle; his calloused hands were worn and experienced. “Have a seat, young lady,” he told me. “What can I do to help you?” 𝙹𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕; 𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕. I didn’t learn my lesson on November 11th, 2019. That was the greatest night of my life - if only for a moment. People like to laugh at my seven-day stint at the top of the industry - but I should’ve known then what I furiously rejected. I was bludgeoned and mained only minuteslater by Odin Balfore, who appeared unannounced and unprovoked and slammed me on the steel stage. I wanted to forget about that. I wanted to deny that it set the tone for my failed defense seven days later against Frank Venable. I wanted to believe that I got past it, that I needn’t be concerned of the damage he inflicted in that moment. Not physically - I heal quicker than most. But emotionally. The wings I’d grown to soar into the clouds were clipped and fractured and I sputtered to the ground like I’d been nuked with a missile. And I’ve never had the chance to rectify that. Lately, I’ve battled every demon that has given me chase. Every hurdle that had been standing in my way. I closed chapters and sought absolution and resolution. And I saw this moment, the Trials of Despair, as the opportunity I’d been deprived of for so long. To avenge my greatest dishonor. That’s what this tournament could’ve meant to me. One of the final bosses I’ve yet to vanquish. When we both sailed through to the quarterfinals, I felt like I was staring into the barrel of a loaded gun, aimed right at my head by Odin Balfore himself. But as usual, as we’ve grown to expect, he shot blanks. And now? Instead of completing this chapter, I’m forced to start a new one with some guy named Gerard Angelo. How disappointing. Now, I won’t call you a discount James Raven, even if you bear a striking resemblance. Those jokes are already dated and you’ve only been here for three weeks, and as someone who has heard the same, derivative, misogynistic bullshit for three years, I could empathize with how that feels, y’know? You haven’t done anything yet to indicate that you’ll be anyhing other than a nuisance, and I can appreciate that, Gary. So no, you’re not the surprise we got from Wish while we have Raven in FightNY. You’re worse. We’ve had to endure Sam Kidsgrove since nearly our inception, and here you come along, the cartoon vanilla bad-boy version of that pompous asshole - the same one who’s tournament you failed to end so Action Wrestling had to rely on me to deliver the killing blow. You’re just as one-foot-in, self-absorbed, and self-fellating as that Hollywood hustler primadonna, only you’ve held a mirror to yourself and don’t give a shit about the kind of person in the reflection. You own your scumminess. I can at least respect that, because we know what we get in you. You live your life unfiltered, while Kidsgrove’s perception has been run through enough filters to make Flint, Michigan’s water supply drinkable. But you have an agent who doesn’t check you, and a tag-along brother who enables you - and it gives you free-reign to embarrass yourself every night bedding unnamed thots till your dick falls off. Now, I can hear the chucklefucks in the back “hyuk-hyuk’ing” about how this has been my reputation from go-time, how I’m being such a hypocritical narcissist who keeps an “open for business” sign on her crotch, who might be projecting my insecurities on to you. And maybe there’s just a little bit of truth to that, as I can’t escape that reputation: I could fuck the entire freshman line if I wanted to - spoiler, I don’t - and I do envy that you still have your brother in your life, even if he seems like a dopey jackoff who’ll let you berate him because all he wants is your acceptance. You weren’t here when I was being guided by my brother. You don’t know how much support he gave me, how he kept me grounded and safe and secure - you don’t realize how much gratitude I owe him for being the first face I looked for after those biggest moments. Winning the briefcase. Winning the World Championship - twice. So it pisses me the fuck off that you have this - what I’ve been missing - and you’re fucking throwing it away. For a year-and-a-half, I’ve been trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, looking for anything to replace how significant my brother was to me. And it takes a lot of self-reflection and fresh new perspective to get to the root of that, to understand that and to realize that pills and alcohol couldn’t do it. Addy A couldn’t be it. Philidor Holdings only manipulated it. I might have wasted away for a year after Robbie died, filling every hole in my heart with things that only kept it bruised and blackened. But it’s not too late for me, Gerard. I still need to learn how to be Lissie fuckin’ Hope without him. And you'll be sorry when I do. It begins by winning the Trials of Despair. “Have you thought about why you’ve felt like you’ve been trying to replace him?” “It’s like - I’ve been searching for something, anything -” “Anyone?” I went quiet, watching him nod his head, inviting me to continue. “I’ve met some great people during my time in AW. When I lived in New Orleans. My stays in Vegas. And not a single one has ever come close filling the crater in my soul.” “He meant a lot to you.” “He meant everything to me. He was my blood, and he’s still forever in my blood until the day I see him again.” “Do you believe you will?” “I believe I have. Or at least, I’ve come close. And he told me to come back.” “In your dreams?” “Yeah, something like that. And I still feel him in my heart. I could still hear him in the walls of the house until the blaze.” “Do you feel him now?” With the tears blurring my vision, I shook my head ‘no’. I dabbed my eyes with a tissue, chuckling, and his head shifted like a confused animal hearing an unfamiliar noise. “I don’t know you well enough yet.” “Honey, you’re going to have to finally acknowledge that nobody is going to replace him. That’s an unfair burden you’re placing on everyone you ever let in.” “I’m not -” “Maybe not intentionally, but you do.” My mind wandered. I thought back to the blame I hurled at Adelaide. And the expectations I had laid Spencer’s feet, and how I slowly drifted away until I was lost at sea. I invited Mae into my chaotic life until it torpedoed. I tried to fill my emptiness with sobriety and Philidor Holdings - which, ironically, became my newest addiction. I gave up my entire identity and my independence so I could be ingrained into that organization. And I hope God will forgive me for the things I’ve done since. “Who have you surrounded yourself with lately?” “I have a few… acquaintances. I don’t know if I’d call them friends. I don’t open up as much as I used to. I feel like if I do, they are just going to expect something out of me, and I don’t have much left to give.” “Has anyone helped steer you in the right direction?” “There have been - and I’ve pushed them away.” “Exactly. And are you seeing somebody now?” “I am.” I smiled like a schoolgirl smitten with a new crush. I started picking at my cuticles. “It’s really exciting - really new. We’ve spent the last couple of weekends together, getting to know each other. I think we’re falling for each other.” “Does she know about the weight you’ve been carrying?” I glanced up at Dr. Setzler. His eyes were piercing my soul. “Not everything.” “Does she know about your dreams?” “She knows what I want to accomplish.” “Not your ambitions, honey. Does she know about your dreams?” I shook my head no. “I don’t want to scare her away.” “I have some homework for you. I want you to evaluate the decisions you’ve made since his death. And I want you to figure out the why.” 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎. Emma draped her legs over mine and played with my curls as I sat with her in the airport terminal. She was embarking on her flight back home, and we wanted to spend every second we had left together. I had been sent a link to a TMZ article - “Gerard Angelo caught picking up woman in bar” - and we decided to watch the footage together. “Hi, I’m Alexa.” The skinny blonde sits next to him. “Yes, you are.” She let out a guttural laugh. “Play it again!” We watched a second time, unable to control our hysterics. “That actually worked??” “Imagine if that was my opener! ‘I’m Emma’... ‘yes, you are.’ What would you have done?” She stared at me with a blank expression on her face. With my confusion evident, she opened her eyes even wider. “What are you doing?” “My best Zooey impression.” “Stop!” I said, laughing. “Seriously! How would you respond if I was that lame?” She pondered for a second, putting a finger to her lip. “You - me - bathroom. Pants-off, now!” I leaned in and ran my fingers up her sides - her weak spot - giving her kisses on the neck. I looked up and saw a man staring at us through thick glasses, his unshaved mouth curling into disgust. “Looks like that neckbeard isn’t enjoying the show.” “Wow he literally has a neckbeard.” As he stood, he pulled his undersized C.J. Phoenix shirt down over his protruding stomach. I pulled Emma in close, tears in my eyes. “I don’t want you to go.” “I’ll be back before you know it.” Action Wrestling wants Lissie fuckin’ Hope. I’ve been gone a long time. Don’t get me wrong - I’ve been around. But I haven’t been myself. I let Philidor Holdings shroud the light I brought into this organization. And unlucky for you, Gerard, this is how I take it back. I’m done playing the part of the fallen star; I need to reclaim my status as one of the shining beacons of hope in Action Wrestling. I’ve represented this organization all across the world, I’ve established myself as a first-ballot Hall of Famer, and I’m tired of swimming upstream when I should be riding the waves. You’re going to need to bring your best to the ring on Monday, because if there’s one thing I never lost is this: I am everyone’s Super Bowl. A win over me defines your career; all you have to do is ask Regan Voorhees. But you? I might find you amusing, Gerard - you haven’t pissed me off yet. But you’re a poor man’s Kidsgrove, and I already showed the world last week that I prevail over smug motherfuckers who read scripts for a living. You’ve convinced nobody otherwise; this industry is secondary to you, and I won’t let you be an obstacle in my quest to rejoin the upper echelon of Action Wrestling. Cement my place where I fucking belong. I’m going to beat you, Gerard, and then I'll win the United States Championship. I’m ready for another big moment. I’m ready to be proud again. Now how’s that for some fucking perspective?
|
