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I need to get into some sort of martial arts class or start regularly sparring with friends again. My mind is constantly thinking about fighting nowadays. Angles, stances, pressure points, locks, parries, sweeps, blocks, takedowns. Listening for sounds of approach, scanning strangers for intentions, rounding corners carefully, scanning for all exits when entering rooms, noting objects that can be used as improvised weapons. There's an engineering appeal to it, and it plays into my need to constantly learn, improve, and test myself.
Sir, I need to fight you. I need to be better than you at something. I need to know that in another time, I would be able to take from you the dreams that you've crushed. You keep beating me. You're better than me at so much. But I will win, because I have to win to feel like I have any manner of human worth. No one should judge themselves by the standards of others. But no one should be a paranoid tit over these standards either. Name your terms, sir. This will be done honorably.
But I lead you out to the hallway because you've made me pretty upset. I hate when people try compare the bad things in their lives. Like having a shitty life somehow makes you superior. That doesn't even make any sense. I blame this on our postmodern depressionalist society.
I'm blathering. The point is, when you say "I work for a living," in an attempt to make me feel inferior, you piss me off. This isn't what you said before I pulled you into the hallway, but it's one of the things that got me started.
You sat on the bed across the room from me. I stood up, took your hand, and walked out of the room. There was no forcing. You followed willingly. You thought maybe I would try to wrestle you in the hallway again. I thought about it. You kick my ass every time, though I'm sure you aren't merciless with me. I can tell that as you get me in a strange position, you hold back, afraid that maybe I will break, afraid that we will lose control. "You're going to get hurt. I don't want to hurt you." You say it every time. But trying to throw you to the ground in that "friends that like to fight" sort of way is relieving. Hell, it's a relief to be thrown down, as sick as that is.
The play wrestle begins. We grab hands. I try to take a leg out from under you. I fail. And you stop. And you look me in the eyes, and our hands still locked in that mercy grip, you say something along the lines of "I will hurt you. I have no qualms." And you squeezed my hands tighter, twisting my wrists like a game of mercy. But I'm not playing back anymore. I'm not sure you realize it. I want out of this situation. I want you to let go of my hands, but you aren't loosening up, and I'm afraid if I don't leave my wrists tensed, pushing back against you, I'll get hurt.
I look into your eyes. They are light green, slightly blue, the color is calming, but the way you are crushing my hands is a little distracting. " Don't be a douche bag," I say, calmly, though you are making me a little bit nervous.
I don't know when you finally loosened your grip, I assume it was about this time. I put my hands on your face and look you in the eyes as I repeat myself. "Just don't," I say, and you look at me and say "I'm an asshole honey, it's kind of what I do."
My hands on your face, forcing you to look me in the eyes, voice so serious it's almost shaking, "Don't be a douche bag." And I drop my hands, walk into my room, retrieve my phone and keys, and leave. I walked outside, sat on the ground, sent a text, and cried.
This is the same person that I thought was looking out for me. My protector. I don't really think that that has changed. At least, I hope not. I just think that something happened, some stress induced craziness took us over, and I got scared, and maybe you did too.
I remember being in junior high and my brother going through a phase (he being in high school) where he was involved in drugs and being a pusher and all that. Of course, the pain that he felt from my parents' divorce was still being carried over and allocated into all the gaps in his everyday life. So he fought. He made me watch him beat the crap out of some guy. He wouldn't take me home. I begged. He wouldn't. Fights scare me, and the word, to this day, reminds me of the anxious and queasy feeling I felt when I watched my brother's fist hit the face of the boy who didn't do anything wrong.