Fight

I don’t even say good-bye; I just leave.

I start the vehicle that I have loaded with my belongings, and I drive down the Barnet Highway. Even in the dark, the beautiful views from the road momentarily distract me from my anger. But the anger comes raging back once I catch sight of my new apartment, as I am exhausted, and I know that it will still be awhile before I can sleep.

I pull into my new parking spot, and sort through my new keys. It is late, and I have a lot of unpacking to do. If I leave my possessions in the car, someone may steal them. I have six boxes and a rabbit cage to carry through the door, and it takes me two hours of struggling. When I am done, I look down at the bare wooden floor that I will be sleeping on. The anger surges within me, but I swallow it. I will have to awaken early, and if I allow the anger to swamp my mind, then I will be up all night mucking through a brain of bullshit. Slowly, the grip of anger begins to subside, and it releases me into the waiting arms of slumber.



Weeks have gone by and we still have not spoken. Our stubborn heads have butted, and neither father nor daughter wants to show any weakness. My back aches from the hard floor, but it does nothing to mask my inner resentment when you stop by one day to drop off my mattress. Our eyes do not meet, and I take the mattress in without a word.

I am working hard for minimum wage, but I have my freedom, so I feign contentment. I eat pizza every day, and go out whenever I want. Acquaintances come by to visit, and I enjoy the company—an escape from my solitude—sometimes a little too much. My sweater begins to smell of another woman’s husband.

I am having fun with my freedom.

My mind has been switched off since I moved out, but reality is starting to worm its way into my apartment of gluttony, and my common sense stirs. Freedom may be fun, but life needs a purpose. I realize that although being free for its own sake is highly valued, not using my newfound freedom positively is pointless. It is like I have turned from a forest path and wandered off into the woods to get lost on purpose, and I am fucking random bush-people along the way.

This is a positive realization; it will fuel me to aim higher. But it comes too late.

I get up one morning-and I fall back down. My foot is swollen. I call into work; I tell them that I must have broken my toe.

The next day is the same. I am in pain, so I go to the hospital. The doctors shrug me off as a stubbed toe. I call you, finally. You are surprisingly supportive. I tell you that I will try to continue to work through this pain. You call me a fool.

I wake up the next morning and remove the blankets from over my weakening body. I test my swollen foot on the wooden floor. Pain. I get on all fours and crawl down the hall to the bathroom. I run the faucet, and tears fall from my eyes as the water hits my flesh. I wipe my face and my tears are swept down the drain. I shower sitting in the bathtub because I can barely stand. I dress, and limp to work.

My pain has forced reconciliation between us, but my freedom has been taken away again. You are there to support me, and I am grateful for it, for although you were the one hindering me before, you are now the only one helping me.

I lose my job and become as useless as my swollen toes. The doctors tell me that I have arthritis, and that it is spreading rapidly throughout my joints. I stop eating pizza, and no one comes to visit anymore. You invite me back home, but I refuse, just as you refuse to believe that a young woman can become stricken with an old man’s disease. We are stubborn again. You are angry with me; but I am convinced that moving back home would make me a failure.

I am out of work for a month and a half when I decide to regain my independence. I have borrowed enough money from you, and I must go on living. I will not accept this pain; I will fight it for as long as I can. If there is anything I have inherited from you, it is your stubborn will.

You come over one day to check on me. My apartment is in shambles. With my artillery of excuses I attempt to explain the state of my home, explain why there are mice and bugs and broken windows, and that I am still fully capable of looking after myself. You are unconvinced and offer me more money. I decline, and I state how well I am doing financially. Waitressing isn’t actually that hard when you can’t walk; it just hurts like hell. I repeat that I am working through the pain and that I am going to beat this debilitation. I put on my sweater that smells like rabbit litter.

You still can’t accept that your twenty-something daughter has arthritis. I have accepted the condition, but not its consequences. I go to a rheumatologist, and he pats me on the shoulder; he urges me to accept my fate. I shrug off of his hand and continue to decline anti-inflammatories. I meet his pitied gaze with determination.

I become desperate. I am obsessed with the cause of my continually spreading pain. Perhaps it is my diet. I stop eating; I gorge myself. I am anorexic; I am obese. No matter my weight you always tell me that I am too thin, even when I believe I am at my biggest. You say that men like women with meat on their bones; I go for another day without food. Men have nothing to do with this. It has everything to do with my health, my life.

Two years pass—two years of swelling and subsiding, pain and anger—and then, one day, I awake as usual, and test my now knarled, twisted feet on the cold, hardwood floor. No pain. I am confused, but thankful. That morning, there are more tears in the shower; but not tears of pain, tears of relief. I stand and shower. I swear to embrace my newfound freedom. I call you and ask you if I can move back home and go to college. You are relieved as well.



I drive down the Barnet Highway, my vehicle loaded with my things. I gaze out in awe over the inlet, and smile. I pull up to your house and park in my old parking spot. You are waiting for me, along with my mother and brother. I get help unloading my car, my rabbit cage and my mattress.

That night I drift off almost immediately. My last thought before I am welcomed by slumber is about the fight between us that caused me to leave in the first place; for the life of me, I can’t recall what is was about.