All That We Are

This may be the last memoir chapter I share publicly for a little while. Like all of the ones I’ve posted here and the two I put on my other blog, Puncher’s Chance, this one is intensely personal. It deals with my own struggle with depression which, again, is a growing problem in society at large, and must be spoken of openly. Sweeping it under the rug and treating it like some disease that you’ll catch if you so much as acknowledge its existence only makes those who are dealing with it feel more alienated than they already are. Thank you for reading.

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There’s nothing romantic about being the best fighter no one has ever heard of. Or about being a good writer whose material not enough people have read. I have hundreds of pages written that I’m scared to publish, and have yet to perform up to my potential in the ring. I don’t know what the hell I’m afraid of. The best explanation I’ve been able to come up with is that I’m subconsciously holding back. If I don’t give one hundred percent, then I’ll still have an excuse if I fail. Or, maybe, I’ve trained myself to shut down – at least partially – during moments when action is most required of me. On the few occasions that I’ve read, or been required to read Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I always felt some kinship with the play’s protagonist. After all, Hamlet’s inability to act was his tragic flaw.

My life must look amazing from the outside. I’m blessed with talent in areas that I enjoy and have been lucky enough to discover them at a young age. My sparring partners, from the lowest amateur to the several established professionals, have paid me every imaginable compliment. I have everything going for me, but I can never quite put it all together when it counts. I perform maybe at thirty or forty percent of my potential and, even with that, I put on a clinic against UConn’s team captain. He barely hit me clean all fight long, and I couldn’t miss with my counter punches. It was like I was seeing everything in slow motion, and I was still not at my best. But I’ve still lost a lot of fights to guys who, quite frankly, aren’t on my level. Whenever I stop fighting, I don’t want to always wonder, ‘What could have been?’ And when I die, I don’t want my closest of kin to find multiple novels’ worth of unpublished work on my computer because I was too scared to follow through on it. It would be such a waste; I need to stop selling myself short.

Hamlet’s hesitancy to act was infuriating to read about, and yet, I understand it on a very deep level. I wish I could say differently, because that would mean that I’m not dealing with the same problem.

So how must it be for those closest to me to watch? Meiya, my mom, my coach. They’re all so supportive of me, even when I don’t perform to my abilities. But I always imagine them feeling the same. Being as disappointed in me as I am myself. So I allow that fear to fester and grow. It’s not a hole inside, whose existence I can cover up anymore. It’s morphed into a crushing burden that I carry everywhere. It drives me to a knee, then to the floor in a heap. I thought I was too smart for this to happen, but it finally caught up to me.

—

“It’s noon. I really should get out of bed. Be productive. Do something.”

“What’s the point? Why does it matter what you do?”

“I…I don’t know. I’m fresh out of answers. Nothing I do makes a difference. I have class in an hour…”

“Fuck it.”

“But…okay.”

“That’s right.”

“I have work today.”

“Call in sick.”

The idea of lying in bed for yet another day is both repulsive and inviting. I don’t feel anything as I look at the accumulating clutter around my room. I’m normally a clean person, but this is getting to be pretty disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with me… I’m barely eating anymore. Can’t even maintain a consistent train of thought. “I should really clean up this mess.”

“No. Stay in bed.”

“Fuck. You.”

“You’ll just end up like your friend did. Sooner or later…”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not making any compelling arguments as to why I should.”

I roll over and look at one of the Muhammad Ali posters that adorn my walls. Ali is standing defiantly over Sonny Liston. What would he think of this pity party? What was that famous quote of his? ‘Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.’ I force a chuckle, realizing that I’ve got the suffering part down. I sit up in bed.

“You haven’t been quiet in almost three years.”

“Your father’s suicide really got my attention.”

“Because of you, I’m not whole. I haven’t been since that day. If I could physically reach into my chest and rip you out, I would. Bodily pain is easy. That’s why fighting is easy for me…I should go for a run. I’d have a good reason to shower then.”

“Why?”

“I’m not letting you take me. You took my dad already. You took my friend last month. You’re not driving me down like you did them.”

“So naïve…”

“Maybe. But I have a choice. I always have a choice.” I throw one of the many tissues by my bedside into the garbage.

“We’ll see about that.”

I’m starting to pick up the dirty clothing and scattered papers which have totally obscured the area rug by my bed.

“What’s the point of all this, now?”

Ignore it. All the sleepless nights and listless days because of this motherfucking leach. I lie awake, stressed out about everything and nothing at the same time, then shamble through my days. Even when I try to write, nothing comes out. I’m not letting this thing rob me of my creativity, my vitality, or my figurative and literal will to fight anymore.

“Excuse me. I’m fucking talking to you.”

“Because what we do is all that we are.”

Silence.

“Because ultimately, no one gives a shit that I’m struggling. That I’m fucked up. They only see that I’m not going to class, that I’m calling out of work too often. That I’m not training. So what happens then?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you lie back down? Take a load off…?”

“Then my professors flunk me, and I get fired. My coach pulls me from my next fight. He cares, and would want to help, but his hands would be tied. So I’d be out of work and might not graduate if I don’t do something.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of me. You’ve always been a part of me, but if I have my way, you won’t always be.”

“So that’s it. You’re ‘all better’ now?”

I laugh. It’s the first audible noise I’ve made in I don’t know how long. It seems to echo off the walls. Maybe because I haven’t said a word in days… “No.”

“I don’t follow.”

“No. I’m not all better. Far from it. I still feel lost. I still don’t see how it will get better. I still have no real will to do anything that I used to enjoy. But…I still do want to be happy. I can’t find that hiding under my covers like some sniveling little kid who thinks there are monsters under his bed.”

“We’ll see.”

“I guess we will, but you don’t own me. You owned my father. You owned my grandmother. You do not fucking own me.” My fists are balled. My eyes are boring a hole in the rug in front of me. “You won’t run me into the ground like you’ve done to past generations of my family. I won’t pass you on to my kids, like my father did to me. They won’t even know that you ever existed.”

—

So I shower. I get dressed. I go through the motions. It’s already four o’clock. I’ve missed all of my classes. Again. The day isn’t all lost though. I can take a baby step towards sanity. I can leave my apartment. I put my headphones in my ears and try to tune out some of the inescapable noise in my head. I press play, and Eminem’s “When I’m Gone” resumes, already in the middle. “I look up, it’s just me standin’ in the mirror. These fuckin’ walls must be talkin’, ’cause man I can hear ’em.”

Same, Em.

I stand at the door to my apartment, place my hand on the knob.

And turn.

End

~Sean Donnelly