To Change the World

Based on the Prompt: Write a story about someone who's haunted by their past.

The worn-down heels of my boots barely click on the pavement as I make my way home. The cool night air of the August evening is just enough to send a chill down my spine as it connects with my skin, still glistening from my workout. I spent the last hour of my evening in the gym, punching a bag and drilling techniques I've ingrained to more than muscle memory. I reach home, glad another day is over, ready to start another one of my compulsive routines. A quick kiss for the boyfriend, a few minutes petting our dog and I'm off to shower the day away. I scream the words to Perfect Weapon, having my own one girl mosh pit in my tiny bathroom. My hair rests on top of my head in a messy bun, and I roam the kitchen in search of something for dinner. Some people tell me routines are boring, that you have to be spontaneous to enjoy life. It would be too complicated to explain how these routines give me control when it all feels lost. 

    I won’t waste time with details but rather fun metaphors. I grew up in one of those small towns that people dream of getting out of but rarely ever do. Living in that town was losing a battle every day in a never-ending war of expectations and disappointment. I got out. I moved to the city, had no clue who I was, or wanted to be. I had no answers, so I stopped looking and made my own. I cut my hair, changed my style, and destroyed the version of myself I brought with me from home. I wasn’t going to be that shy little girl, not anymore. I took self-defense and started teaching it too, started working out, and stopped caring about s****y people. People call me aggressive, bossy, and even difficult, but it’s not me. It’s the s****y world we live in. People would rather make assumptions than ask a question. I teach self-defense, I speak out against rape culture, I stand against the stigma that surrounds mental health treatment. The story I tell isn’t mine. In this new person, I discovered 25 miles from the hell I thought I escaped I found, even more, to be angry at. A world where people would rather suffer silently because society doesn’t understand. A world where people are afraid of reporting crimes because of victim-blaming in the system. Where for every student in my RAD class that is being proactive, there is another who is being reactive.  One student comes to me afraid of the potential for bad things to happen. Another comes already knowing and not wanting it to happen again. For every person who wants to take back their life, is another who may never feel like they can. So I deal with it. I deal with people having no idea who I am. 

It took years but I returned to my small little town; I didn’t return though. I killed myself; I killed the weak little girl who couldn’t get out, who wouldn’t have survived the life I lived in the city and the shattering reality of the truth that was discovered there. People don’t know the new me and most of them don’t want to. They see a young professional, new to the field of mental health with dreams and aspirations for the future, but that’s not all. At first, people don’t notice the ninja. Like a shadow, she’s always there but usually goes unnoticed. The professional clocks in when my badge gets clipped on and out when it’s taken off at the end of my shift. The RAD instructor comes out when I put on my red shirt with my SUPD patch, showing I’m officially adopted by the department. Unlike the different roles I shift through, the ninja never leaves. 

People think I’m nice, cute, respectful, and in the boyfriend’s words, innocent. Only a few things give away the ninja. The nice way is when someone knows me long enough to get comfortable and let the ninja be seen. When they hear the opening scream of perfect weapon blast through my speakers, things can go either way. People tend not to like me when they realize the ninja is there. I tell the truth, so they think I’m difficult. I lead, therefore I’m bossy. I’m assertive, so that translates to aggressive. People don’t like the ninja because the ninja calls out all the bullshit that people don’t say for the sake of not offending anyone or being “politically correct”. The ninja doesn’t care about leaving a trail of fire and bodies in her wake with the smoking gun still in her hand. Most people don’t realize it, but the ninja is me. Not some role that begins and ends, but the core of who I am, that temporarily has to hide for the sake of working in the system of the fucked up world we live in. 

Coming out of my internal monologue, I return to reality once more. I join the boyfriend for a simple pasta dinner in our typical fashion; him munching away and scrolling through his phone with me sitting criss cross apple sauce in my endless rebellion against chairs. Another day gone and I question, as I do every day, if anything I did will have an impact. We chat about the day, how work went, and finally, settle in for the night. 

“I love you, you know that?” He states breaking the silence in our bedroom. I look at him, and the look on his face tells me I don’t need “psych” in my psychology degree to stand for psychic. 

“I know you do. Even when I’m cussing out the world 20 minutes into a rant while you partially regret asking how my day was.” familiar knowledge from years of routine. We share a laugh as we understand each other, definitely too well. We fit together like puzzle pieces. If I’ve learned one thing it’s your best friend is someone who understands and can handle your unique type of crazy. Mine fits into the dream I built years ago. I want to change the world and I’m just crazy enough to believe I can.

Reviews

[Nusquam Esse]

I particularly liked the line "in my endless rebellion against chairs." Somehow, I can relate to this as more than just a physical defiance of norms.

How do you find yourself? My favorite response is this diary entry by Franz Kafka, "Forget everything. Open the windows. Clear the room. The wind blows through it. You see only its emptiness, you search in every corner and don’t find yourself."

As for constructive criticism, perhaps try reading your sentences aloud and consider how pauses (punctuation) can help your flow and clarify your prose?