Fighting the Good Fight

Conversations with friends.

A friend told me something today. Excuse me for paraphrasing but in essence, she said “If you feel so different about this, then you hold onto it until you KNOW it’s not worth it anymore”. I don’t know what hit me so hard about her words, but immediately I became a crying mess at my work desk and my well applied eyeliner started pooling up in the corners of my eyes. The good news is, I always end up looking like a wild animal, no matter the day or the mood I’m in, so I think I am pretty well concealed in my quiet tantrum-throwing. Some days are just hard.

We all fight. We struggle and kick and throw our expensive phones at walls and break them into a million pieces. We stomp around and stub our toes. We argue over who left dishes in the sink, we fight about who gets to choose the movie for the night. Sometimes we war over justice, or a movement that we don’t really understand but have to be a part of or we’ll look like we’re uncaring.

We hold onto grudges, we hold hands, we hold onto dreams and ideals and pave paths covered in pretty moss and lilies. We hold onto love and hold onto defeat. We are the clingiest species alive.

But what do we really fight for? And when does fighting for something cross the line and then become stubbornness? If I can grasp the concept of hope versus wishful thinking, I think I can get a grip on what, when, where and how to fight for what I want, believe in or feel is right. Right? Right?! And is holding onto something fighting? Maybe that’s considered entrapment, or stalking, for that matter. How long do you hold on? How long do you fight?

See the pattern here; it all comes down to answers that I don’t think I have in my library of knowledge. So where do we start? Where do I start, that’s the real question, because if I don’t know where I’m starting, I sure as hell can’t help you all figure out your life’s destination. Sorry.

When I picture the fight, for life, for whatever, I automatically lend myself images from Rome. Spear at the ready, I am bound in leather and metal and feathered up like a proud peacock. With a throaty yell, I leap forward, tiny skirt billowing out, chest glistening with the sweat of previous battles. I am solid in form, and unwavering. My eyes are focused. This is the end all struggle, and I came here to conquer. This…is…SPARTA!

I am ridiculous, but it’s wonderful.

I know. I tend to go over the top. Go hard or go home, run at that wall until you run right through it. Walk away bleeding, because at least you know then that you made a true, nitty-gritty effort. Come home with scars and bruises and broken bones. This is how I do it, but maybe I’m doing it all wrong.

What frustrates me about the fight, is when you are in it alone. Sometimes, it’s necessary, but damn, is it ever lonely. And that’s why I fight so hard, and will all my strength, even when there is no one to motivate me. My motivation is what I am fighting for. Lucky for me I have a lot of friends who help me decipher between what is worth fighting for, and when I should lay down my sword and shield.

Right now, the whispered words are “Do not give up”. They are ringing true.

I can’t stop. I’d rather fight than lay down and die. I’d rather hold onto what I believe is right until I find that it is not right anymore; and if it turns out I was wrong all along, I would rather be able to look back and say that it was not a missed opportunity, because I took it. Failed opportunities do not equal ultimate failure.

As always, I will remind you that I am not only a doctor, but a great philosopher, and am quite sure of my words.

So here I am, holding on to mercy. If mercy is a balloon that’s floating away, I am the child with her legs wrapped around a tree branch, clutching to the string.