Disclaimer: I write because I want to. I want to revisit this document a few years later and see how I much I have moved or stayed from what I believed in. I will come across as someone bossy for I will project a lot of 'in-my-opinion and i-think/believe' related phrases. I am open to views on the subject matter, for the insights of each one of us, is so vastly different. To me, that is something of beauty. So I welcome you to read this somewhat convoluted, yet hopefully sane musings of mine.
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It is a 6feet by 6feet rink, held shut by the harshest of ropes.
She stands at one end, in the shadows, away from the spotlight. It is the darkest and deepest of corners. It is the alley of condemning voices and broken bones. It is the alley where the bloodstains have made home. There is no one who cares.
She stands all alone clenching her boxing gloves tight. She stands all alone shaking like a leaf.
The bright lit center beckons but she shakes like a leaf. The voices begin their taunt - on she rests our bets and gold?
Her bruised knuckles and her tightly clenched fist lets go. The voices drowned out by the fallen red gloves.
She shakes like a leaf.
She is jostled for a bit.
She begins to breathe.
The fight must go on. No one really cares how wounded she is. This is a game of cheap gamblers and she is but an animal in the cage.
She tries for the third time...
She straps on her gloves. She answers the beckoning.
The brilliance of the bright light blinds her. She shakes like a leaf.
But she takes her stance. She takes one long breath and pushes with all of her existence.
A ray of the bright light shines through her. It shines brightly on the single tear that drops.
She shakes like a leaf. But the fight of healing must go on.
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Editor's Note: I wrote this on September 2, 2012. I was 24 years old. I had my heart broken by the only man I really loved. He was the one I wanted to trouble till we grew old. He was the one I wanted to hear whine how bad a cook I am - but would eat it anyway. He was my best friend and now, a page in history. I wrote this when I saw his wife and him (he eloped with another, FYI) on my way back from a kickboxing class. This is just 9 months since it ended. I grew numb, somehow drove straight to the closest refugee - an empty church, and had one of my severe anxiety attacks. It's not about just a boy. It's about someone/something that fuels the idea of how much you're not worth existing.
I wrote this because it was either drinking myself to death, drinking and then slashing my wrists, or drinking and wanting to kickbox again. I'm not proud of how it's turned out as a piece, but it still reminds me how I fought through. Depression and PCOS go hand in hand. This is a hard disease. Talk to someone who can help you. Don't fight it alone. Or talk to me. Let's bitch the shit out of this MoFo. :)
