I've never been a fighter. I'm no good at it. I vaguely remember in elementary school some kid got pissed off at me. He said, "Choose ya!" I went, "What? What does that mean?" Then I think clocked me.
For some people fighting seems to be as natural as breathing. Not to me. I'll do just about anything to avoid a fight. I don't look for trouble, either. But there are those who seem to thrive on fighting. In intimate relationships, especially. Make-up sex? I don't understand make-up sex. Why would you fight with someone who loves you? It destroys the connection. Why would you want to destroy the connection?
But today while I was walking and talking to myself (I'm a brilliant conversationalist, don't you know), the subject of fighting came up. Knock down drag out fighting. "I think I need a fight! Maybe I need to fight with someone. Maybe that would help to unlock some emotions that are so far down and buried that I can't even touch them."
Who would I fight, then? I don't really care. Maybe one of those assholes who is leaving creepy stalking comments on other people's blogs. Perhaps that jerk who won't let my old friend get on with her life. I don't think it matters, as long as the fight stirs up some passion and nobody gets killed.
Hardly a practical idea. It stands for something important, though.
Oh, that reminds me: I started a war once. Remind me to tell you about that some time.
I just finished a lovely, long phone conversation with my daughter who is too far away. I love you, sweetie.
One of these days I'll find the right words, in the right order. I wonder if it will make any difference when I do.I have stinky farts tonight. Why? I haven't eaten anything lately.
Well, off to bed. I must not miss my doc appointment tomorrow morning! Yay for antidepressants. Happy, happy, joy, joy.
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(Okay, we weren't actually fighting - he was trying to make me pee my pants by tickling me. And apparently I have a hard head.)
Maybe the anti-depressants are the cause of the stinkiness?
Actually the antidepressants seem to help with the stinky thing. It has something to do with quescient anxiety, which lives somewhere in the digestive tract, related to depression somehow. I cut my citalopram in half this past week in search of less thinking and more feeling. It's probably a reaction to the shift. Maybe I'll ask the doc about it in the morning and report back!
Thanks for reading and commenting, Anni. I read your piece today but haven't directly commented yet. It's such a thoughtful piece. The seed for the comment was "Maybe you are not cold. Maybe you are quiet and wise. You have been through it, and you know how little what one says to a grieving person means at the time. Maybe you are warm, but chilled through empathy by memories of unjust loss."
I've probably been in way more serious fights than most upper-class white girls. I don't pick fights, but I don't back down either, which means certain types of people pick fights with me. I'm tall and until I got sick I was strong, and my dad was Special Forces for 25 years and would toss out tidbits like, "If some guy ever tries anything with you, let me show you how to jam your fingers up inside his ribcage and shock his heart into stopping." (Never tested that, but I think my fingers are not sufficiently strong to do what he showed me.)
I *have* had a girl try to beat me with a bicycle chain wrapped in duct tape because she thought I thought she was ugly. Note that she didn't think I said she was ugly, she thought I thought it. She was a little disturbed. I took the chain away from her using two sticks and hit her in the ankles a lot until she stopped following me, and after that, she was weirdly worshipful of me. And I've had a guy try to come after me with a broken beer bottle (I literally saw red, kicked it out of his hand, jumped on him like a mad ape and pounded his head against the curb until he lost consciousness), and I've been in a dust-up in a Chinese restaurant which was like something out of a Bruce Lee movie involving five guys who thought they could rob the place just by intimidation, no weapons. Note to anyone reading: do not try to rob a Chinese restaurant. If you need money, there are better ways. There may not be anyone up front but the hostess and some chick and her husband eating the buffet, but there are 40 assorted relatives in the back who are all kung-fu movie fans, and they have knives. It was like watching someone step on a nest of fire ants, count to thirty and they all come pouring out.
Rick, you sound more like a friend of mine who is a karate instructor. Although he has a black belt, he had never been in a fight, and he was spoiling for one, so he tried to intervene in a gang fight. He ended up getting beaten badly enough to need kidney surgery, and was very surprised that it wasn't his technique that had failed him; he hadn't been able, when it came to the point, to bring himself to hurt another person. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, I think it's a laudable quality.
In America, we do not know how to handle emotions constructively, so in general I think we/I just push them down until we/I forget how to feel. That reminds me of a story....later!
Brian: I'll try to write on your idea soon. Thanks as always.
Janie: Love your rambling. So glad you are here. Maybe you redirected Sid's life toward a path of non-bullying (or not).
Carol: I think you are so right about the way many of us are programmed to (not) express emotions. I will look forward to reading the story that your thought reminded you of!
All, I am grateful for your reads and thoughts. A little slow to respond, sorry...