I’m a fighter.
I fight bloody hard every day.
I’m very good at it.
I’m so good at it you mostly can’t see the joins.
It’s hard work but it’s worth it; the people I love are worth fighting for. I arm myself each day for what is to come and I refuse to be defeated.
I do need to recharge though or the seams occasionally begin to show and my stuffing pokes out, and I don’t need you to see inside me unless you want to. I don’t impose my inner self on others unless they choose to see it. You will see the result of the fight and not the war; I try to give you the peace beyond the battle ground.
I can stop fighting and stop trying and be just me for my sake but I don’t want special treatment, odd looks, different types of relationship because of my fight. I want to blend, appease, fix, help and partake. I want what the fighting brings me. It’s all so worth it. It’s all so bloody worth it.
Most of it.
Things that break into my recuperation are often one battle too far. Those interruptions are the deepest cuts to bear. I have my limits despite my determination. Whenever I am reminded that my fights are not always appreciated and blending isn’t always possible, I hurt so much. When you are carrying out “normal” and “ordinary” from a toolkit containing a different set of tools, you need to try harder to make them work. But I’m used to it. Literally and metaphorically I have always been the type to use what I have and not complain that I don’t have the right tools.
You don’t need to know about this if you don’t want to. I’m used to this hairbrush-instead-of-a-hammer life. And I know it’s a bit difficult to think how different it can be.
I know deep down I’m doing my best, like now: I’m drying my tears, shoving my stuffing back in and soldiering on.