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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Afraid of the Ball
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I remember age 10, playing kickball at the
playground.
I was picked last for the team, since I was neither
popular nor normal. The freshly mowed grass tickled
my allergies, and I wanted nothing more than to
plant my admittedly chubby butt in a swing and finish
reading Romeo and Juliet while I gently rocked back
and forth on the swingset. I was way out in the
field because I was afraid of the ball. I swore
to myself that the ball was naturally attracted
to my bulky frame through some gravitational trick
that could only be explained with a complex physics
formula, since I always managed to get slammed in
the face with it at least once in every game. I
didn't want to admit to myself that the magic was
probably the result of malicious intent from my
playmates. So I stood there, hands slightly curled
at my sides, waiting for the inevitable long kick
perpetrated by one of the more athletic boys with
a mean frown etched into his forehead. It came,
and even as I winced I raised my hands to catch
the orange projectile aimed right at me. Instead
it slammed me in the gut, and all of the air in
my lungs was expelled in one microsecond, and I
doubled over trying desperately to force oxygen
into my constricted throat, my wounded diaphragm
struggling to operate my lungs.
I didn't cry. Not in front of them. I was
afraid of the ball, and it had hurt me, and I
couldn't trust it. At that point I realized that
I was being abused because of who I was, and that
there was no computational conspiracy against me.
Once I reached the point where I could elect my gym
classes, I always chose non team sports. Diving,
swimming, running.. As long as there wasn't a ball,
and the only person I had to count on was myself,
I wasn't afraid.
Now I am older and less physically repugnant. Nothing
has changed. I am still afraid of the ball, afraid
of getting hurt, and nothing about the way I am
treated by anyone who supposedly cares about me has
proven me wrong. Yet. The glimmer of hope that I
secure within myself fades a little more each time
my parents decide to apologize for offering
assistance, or someone I love betrays me. It happens
more often than I care to admit. I dared a few to
toss me a good one, but I always end up 10 again, struggling
to breathe through the pain, cursing myself for offering
anyone the opportunity to injure me. But I plow on,
fingers slightly curled at my sides, waiting to catch
the next ball - one that will float as if by prophecy
into my waiting hands and nestle securely into my
palms. Someday soon, though, I will no longer stand
in readiness. Instead I will turn and walk away,
avoidance as armor.
demonika
demonika@demonic.com
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