The Fighter

His eyes opened in startling fashion as the alarm clock blared on his nightstand. What should have been a wakeup call sounded more like the somber ringing of church bells. He blinked slowly, staring up at the ceiling lethargically, and for a fleeting moment he felt nothing. His hand reached haphazardly to his alarm, where, finally reaching it, the sound ceased, and he was left in total silence. He propped himself up and sat at the edge of the bed. His long legs stretched to the floor where his feet lay firmly on the ground.

Something seemed to move within him from this maneuver, as a terrible sensation made its way to his stomach, settling in there like a lead ball.

"There it is," he thought to himself with an air of familiarity.

For as long as he could remember he was greeted with this sensation each morning. He couldn't recall how long it had been there, or when it first arrived. Just that it was there. He was quite resigned to this fact and had grown used to it. It may have always been there, he pondered, but it may have not. Either way, much like a child discovering the world for the first time, it was his reality. He sat there at the end of the bed, his eyes now staring blankly at the morning scene outside his window.

Those eyes were sunken and surrounded by heavy, droopy eyelids with puffy blackish-blue bags underneath. His lips were closed, with just a hint of a frown. He had the appearance of somebody who was deeply engrossed in something. His body was present, but his mind was far away. He thought to himself, " My goodness! Were somebody to be in this room with me, they would simply go deaf with all this noise inside my head!" He had recently become obsessed with this thought. How was it that, with a whole other world residing in his head, all the thoughts and feelings of doubt and anger, nobody was able to hear it outside of him? Surely there would be some spillover. It seemed impossible to him. It was just too much for one person to experience. Could it really be that it was all silent outside of his mind? Would another person just be stuck in awkward silence if they were here with him?

At this thought, he felt like the loneliest person on earth.

He let out a deep sigh and stumbled his way to the bathroom. It was time to start his routine. Today was a big day.

No, he thought. Not just today, every day.

For as long as he could remember all the days were just as big. Each one he would spend tirelessly fighting. Like a boxer fighting for a heavyweight belt, he was also fighting towards something. Something that, at present, seemed so far out of reach.

He would meticulously go about his day, with care in each action, only for his trainer to inevitably find a fault somewhere.

Then agonizing over what his trainer told him he should have done, as he would scrutinized his every move. All the while desperately searching for the right way to go about it to gain the approval of his trainer.

And his trainer, with his sharp piercing voice, would constantly knock him down a peg to get as much as he could out of him. He knew the trainer meant well, and he didn’t mind his methods.

How else was he supposed to learn?

He viewed himself as a block of marble. With his trainer being the sculptor with the promise that one day he would be able to sculpt him into something he would be proud of displaying.

He was all for this vision. It was something the trainer and he shared. Besides, he thought to himself, what is life but an opportunity to work towards becoming your ideal self?

So, every day he would wake up, with the promises of his trainer ringing in his ear. Hoping today would be the day. But each day it was the same. With the sudden gain of consciousness each morning, the eternal pain from his bruises and cuts of the previous day’s work would greet him. The dense, heavy pit in his stomach. The heavy eyelids. The blurry vision. It was rigorous, but it was worth it. It had to be.

He would dream about the day when he could leave his self-doubt behind. When he could confidently go about his business, without his trainer whispering doubts in his ear at every turn, eliciting thoughts on not being good enough.

That was what he yearned for. To be that beautifully sculpted block of marble. A work of art.

Complete.

And yet, it seemed all he was preparing himself for the inevitable letdown, so that once it came, he would be prepared. Because after all, if you armor yourself in self-doubt and self-critiques, nothing else can hurt you.

Nobody could be as cruel to you as yourself.

Could they?