Fight Life

Fight Life

“Guard up. Hunch your shoulders. Light on your feet. Dance around. Dance. Never turn your back. Never give in. Be ready. Be ready.”

She bends her head, pulling her jacket closer and shoving her hands deep into her pockets; as she prepares to battle the fierce winter morning winds. She steps calmly out onto the darkened bustling street; full of night-before people rushing as they seek shelter from the bitter weather. She does not rush, she does not push and shove, she just stands; squinting her eyes, adjusting them to the darkness of the crisp dawn. Breathing in the cold air, she turns against the wind and lets it push her harshly backwards.

She lifts her head, raises her gaze and stares intensely forwards. Slowly she puts one foot in front of the other, again and again, slowly building speed, faster, faster, faster. Courageously, she jogs, her determined face set; against the crowd; against the masses; against the elements. She picks up the speed. Slamming her feet into the solid concrete as if breaking through it, thoughts do not enter her mind, only her emotions drive her now. The coldness burns her lungs, sweat frames her face, wind dries her throat. She pushes until her body can’t go further, her legs turn to jelly and she collapses on the footpath. She breathes heavily for a moment, everything hurts, everything is tired. The exhaustion comes from somewhere deep inside, somewhere too intrinsic to surface. There is nothing more in her.

She slowly picks herself up, barely able to stand. She turns around and faces back the way she came. She lifts her head, raises her gaze and stares intensely forward. Slowly she puts one trembling foot in front of the other, again and again, slowly building speed, faster, faster, faster. She runs back. She knows she must face what she has left behind. She must fight. She needs to be a survivor.

“Know yourself. Know what drives you. You’re in the last round. You’re struggling and outmatched. You hear the bell signal the start. What’s keeping you going? Who are you fighting for? Find what you are living for. Find who you are. Find who you are”

She walks down a darkened alleyway, littered with the rubbish of the previous night’s occupants. She turns her head away from the few people curled up in blankets on the ground and enters a towering building of dreary grey brick and barred windows hidden by closed shutters. She checks her mailbox; there is no mail. She climbs the four flights of stairs; she passes no one. Coming to room 433 she fits her key firmly into the lock, turns the knob, and opens the door to the dingy apartment that is her home. She throws her running shoes on the ground and checks her answering machine; there are no messages.

She continues as she does every morning; shower, dress, brush hair, makeup on. She eats a breakfast of dry museli and a glass of orange juice. The mundane routine would make her sad if she allowed herself to feel, but she doesn’t and she continues in the comfort of knowing nothing is changing. Today, she catches her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She puts down her toothbrush and stares; pressing her face closer the mirror so that it is disproportionate to her surroundings. She looks at her skin, her hair, her nose. She slowly, tentatively, looks into her eyes. Her eyes meet themself. A sharp stab of pain strikes her deeply inside her chest. Surprised, she recoils quickly and lowers her gaze.

She feels unsettled. This is new for her and she contemplates what it would be like to talk to someone. She plays in her mind what she would say, over and over, until the words are perfect and speech-like. She voids her spoken feelings of all emotion. She knows she will never speak them out aloud, she can’t, she has no one to say them to. Although loved by all, as she is easily liked and non-confrontational, she has no one close. Superficial conversations are her specialty, along with listening to the deep wonderings of others. She does not have a someone special; she does not have a wall to lean on or an ear to listen to her. She wonders if she ever could. She wonders what her life would be like if she did. Would she actually be able to need them?

Then she picks up her bag, walks out of her apartment, locks the door behind her, and goes to work.

“It’s all about the lie. You are the biggest. You are the strongest. You are the best. You must pretend. Smile at your opponent. Fake a few moves. Dart in, dart out. You must show them you know you can win. It’s the pretence. Show off your confidence. Trick them. Trick them”

She catches the bus to the other side of the city. The roads are wider, the footpaths lined with bins and small trees contained by plastic netting. Coffee shops follow one after the other, each with special offers and competitive prices. Designer clothing stores sparkle on the corners and the streets are filled with hard-faced people in clean, stiff suits carrying shiny leather suitcases. She stops briefly at the bottom of the marble stairs which lead to the impressive building that is her work. She breathes in and out once. She shrugs her shoulders, clenches and relaxes her fists, sucks in her stomach and lifts her chin. She plasters a genuine-looking smile on her face, adopts a confident but approachable posture and relaxes into the mask she has created.

She is greeted by all as she passes, she is known by everyone. She knows they don’t know who she truly is, how she truly feels, but this does not matter. They know her alias. They know the person she wishes she could actually be. Her kindness and generosity are well known. She can calm the most aggravated client and lighten the heaviest mood. She is skilled. She is competent. Everyone knows of her abilities. It’s lunch time. She buys a coffee for a work friend, surprising her, and is accepted with a smile. She sits down and eats with the others. She laughs at the right times, tells witty stories of her made-up evening adventures, listens quietly as a colleague tells of their hardship and offers soft words of support. She packs up her lunch and returns to her desk.

Her day finishes. She casually declines offers from colleagues to get a drink with excuses of needing to get some extra reading done in preparation for tomorrow. She turns her back and wears the mask until she rounds the corner. She pauses. She breathes in and out once, shrugs her shoulders, clenches and relaxes her fists, lets out her stomach and drops her smile. She stays still for a while, letting the emotion flood through her, just until it reaches the point of overwhelming, then quickly she bottles it back up and pushes on.

“Don’t be predictable. Try something different. Push yourself. You don’t have to stay in control. New for you means new for your opponent. Switch your combinations. Pull away from your crosses. Lean into your opponents jabs. Don’t always duck, take the punch. Be innovative. Think creative. Make today better. Make today better”

Today is different. Today feels different. She rationalises that it was probably the mirror experience. Today she feels slightly stronger, but more vulnerable. The bus going home passes her without stopping. She crosses the road, enters one of the many coffee shops, buys the biggest coffee available, and waits for the bus in the other direction. A bus comes, and it leaves, and yet she stays, sitting on the bench, staring into the distance. She is numb of all thoughts, of all emotions. There is only emptiness left inside her. Catatonic in state, she feels paralysed by what she is about to do. Today is different. Today is a day for change.

The next bus arrives, the brakes making an unpleasant grinding as it pulls up sharply. She follows the crowd of gathered commuters, pushing to the entrance. She doesn’t resist, she lets the people jostle her from side to side, rocking her forward and backward. Like a feather on a stormy ocean she drifts towards the raised driver. Her feet feel disconnected from her body and yet she finds herself sitting on a seat, leaning on the window. Slowly she comes back. She recognises the coldness of the glass on her bare arm and the tingling her feet, she wrinkles her fingers and she is alive. Today she feels strong.

The bus stops at the city cemetery. She gets off the bus and stares at the wrought iron fence and the motto carved in some foreign language into the gate. She enters, takes of her shoes and feels the wetness of the grass slip between her toes. She comes to their graves. They did not die in a tragic event, they did not die as heroes, they died the insignificant death of old age and poor health. She does not speak. She does not cry. She lies down in the wet grass beside her parents and stares into the grey sky.

Emotions flood through her, and yet this time she does not stop them, she lets them consume her, take over her body. She is paralysed by their intensity and a pain rises from somewhere so deep inside it was previously unknown. She remembers. She remembers her mother’s illness. She remembers her father’s illness. She remembers hearing her mother crying herself to sleep and not knowing how to comfort her. She remembers her brother’s anger and his withdrawal. She remembers his obvious pain at returning home. She remembers the fights, the sadness, the anger. She remembers the sickening feeling in her stomach every time she walked through her front door, not knowing what was behind it. And she is filled with guilt. She should have done more to help. She could have done something. So much of what happened was her fault.

Hours pass and still she is lying there. Remembering, feeling, overwhelmed and numb. She is suddenly tired; every part of her body wants to rest. She freezes for minute and clenches every muscle in her body; she can’t remember a time she has ever felt this bad. She picks herself up. Slowly, she makes her way home. With every step she takes she feels the weight of it. Like a dagger through the heart. She is injured. She is damaged. She is in pieces.

“Guard up. Hunch your shoulders. Light on your feet. Dance around. Dance. Never turn your back. Never give in. Be ready. Know yourself. Know what drives you. What’s keep you going? Who are you fighting for? Find what you are living for. Find who you are. It’s all about the lie. You are the biggest. You are the strongest. You are the best. You must pretend. Smile at your opponent. Fake a few moves. Dart in, dart out. You must show them you know you can win. Show off your confidence. Trick them. Don’t be predictable. Try something different. Push yourself. Switch your combinations. Pull away from your crosses. Lean into your opponent’s jabs. Don’t always duck, take the punch. Be innovative. Think creative. Make today better. Make today better”

She goes home, grabs a blanket, and curls up sideways on the couch. She remembers taking up boxing a few years ago. She is not a violent person, nor does she enjoy the fight. The appeal came from its difference. It doesn’t fit with her past self. It doesn’t fit with her real present self. It doesn’t fit with her masked alias. It doesn’t fit. And so she goes. Twice a week for many years now. It’s a part of her future self. She knows she is strong. She lies on the couch broken and damaged. She stares into the darkness. She sets her alarm for 4:30am and places her running shoes next to her on the floor. And she sleeps. Today was the turning point. Tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow she will begin to merge her beings into one. She will become her future self.

She is a warrior. She is a survivor. She will fight life.