This was the feeling I’d been chasing for so long. It was exhilarating. I could feel the blood pumping through my veins. I could feel the adrenaline slowing down the world around me. It was everything I’d always wanted and more. So much more. I saw every movement my opponent made. I saw the punch before it came for me. Knew which way to duck. Which way to weave. Knew where to counter so he wouldn’t be able to see it coming. A head slip. Then a body blow. Then another. Then a hasty retreat as he flailed unpredictably.
It hasn’t always been this easy. I’d trained hard to get here. To the point where I could feel so powerful. But this also wasn’t the first time I’d felt it. Here and there during my training, I’d felt it too. Small, tender moments when I did something, I didn’t know I was capable of. Triumphant moments when I’d surpassed my old limits. I’d taken stock of those feelings when they happened. Built a relationship with the dedication that brought me there so I would never forget what it took.
I wish I could say I chase after all my desires with the same dedication. But part of my dedication to my current passion is knowing my limits. Dedication is a limited resource and spreading it too thin ironically spits in the face of that same dedication. Instead, I dedicate myself fully to this passion. I still leave time, still leave dedication for the other things in my life. I merely don’t pursue them with the same dedication, the same passion as I do this one.
One day, my life may change. One day, my life will change. My passions will change. And my dedication will follow suit. But until then, I duck. I weave. I counter and knock my opponent to the floor. I steady myself, ready myself in case there’s more. I watch him carefully; I make sure it’s finished. When I do, I feel that triumph again. I feel the pride in myself swell in my chest. Feel the acknowledgment of my skill. Then I offer my hand to him.
“It was a good fight.” I tell him. He smiles, accepts the hand I offer him.
“It’s about time you beat me kid.”
“A fight scene? To show his triumph? How incredibly droll.” The Fool murmurs behind me. It took some time for this reel to take shape. For the story to become recognizable.
“Recognizable? Hah! Recognizable to the point of boredom.” The Fool shrugs. Shakes her head.
“But I enjoyed it.” I tell her. “The feeling of triumph, of victory is so clear here. The training he’s been though to finally come out on top. The relationship he’s made with that part of himself. The dedication he’s fostered. It’s so—”
“Desirable?” The Fool sighs.
“Too easy?” I ask her. Though I agree with her. It was. It—
“Fit the Chariot to a tee.” I grin. Walk up to another thread.
“Don’t worry, there are still more stories to tell. More stories to see.” I begin to pull on it. I hear her walk up behind me, her high heels clacking against the ground.
“Are you going to write another story for me? Spin a new tale for me to share?” She asks. There’s still boredom in her voice. She’s still bitter. “Well of course I am.” She exhales. “Day in, day out, the stories are the same. The cards and the feelings. No matter what tale you spin, they’re always the same aren’t they.”
“The moral at the end always has to be the same.” I suggest.
“Yes, yes.” She says impatiently, waving her hands in the air. “The Chariot, the confidence the—”
“Will to fight.” I finish for her. “But a real fight was a little on the nose for this one. But perhaps it was just the start my friend. The beginning to help tell the real story. The inspiration for what is to come.
“Where did it go?” I ask to no one but myself. They were so many times in the past I felt so confident in myself. I had done things. And yet now, when I look back at it all, I see how painfully ordinary those things are. I did well on a test? Who cares. Someone else did better. I beat someone in a game? Who cares. I’ve been beaten a hundred times. I cooked something but I never made it as good again. I graduated but I’m still stuck in the same job.
I know the reality is: for every success, for ever triumph out there, there’s a but there’s a who cares that follows. Sometimes, it doesn’t bother me. Sometimes, I know that even though the but is there, I did it. I accomplished something. But sometimes, I feel like I do now. Like no matter what I accomplish, no matter what triumphs there are, they mean nothing. Like everyone else out there, I’m still just trying to get by.
I know there will always be greater and lesser persons than myself out there but that’s not it. It’s not always about comparing myself to someone else. Sometimes, I just feel inferior. I just feel like I’m not enough. I try to remind myself my successes are still successes. But it’s not enough. There’s still that voice saying: you could be more. You could do more. This isn’t enough.
Whatever enough even means.
Does it mean being successful? Does it mean buying a house and living on my own? Does it mean being married with two point five kids? Does it mean being well-known? Being famous? Does it mean making my family proud? Does it mean making my dad proud? Every time I find myself in this loop, I find myself asking the same question.
I wish I knew the way out. I wish I knew the magical thought, the magical realization I could come to which would cure me of it all. But somewhere, somewhere deep down beyond the haze of inadequate feelings, I already know what I need to know. I know that pain, true mental hurt is like a broken leg. Your leg can heal. You can return to everyday function. You can look like nothing is wrong. But when you step the wrong way, when you get bumped at just the wrong angle, you feel it again. That burning hurt that cripples you and makes you scream in pain.
But I also know that like the pain that can always come back, the pain can also always go away. As long as you are gentle with your wound. As long as you take care of it when you agitate it. As long as you remind yourself this is temporary. That this too shall pass. That you have done the rehabilitation. That you are capable of being a healthy person. You may just need stop. Breathe in. And then breathe out.
“How’s that?” I ask the Fool. She smiles gently, tenderly at the story.
“Better.” She says. She likes the pain, the conflict. And so do I.
“It’s where the story is.” We say together.