the Enemy

The enemy woke me Saturday morning by throwing a paddleball birthday gift from my brother at my door as hard as he could. Woooop, crash, rubber-band reverb, and the bounce of the ball. Once. Then again. Then a third time. I put on my shorts to see what was the matter, though I knew who it was, I wondered why / how it had come to this.

I opened my bedroom door and saw the Enemy with his shorts low and with his shirt off. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Maybe startled himself by his display of stupidity, the apparently stoned enemy stood and shaking he came up with his intended comments. ‘I don’t have respect for you,’ the Enemy said.

And I stared.

He went on, calling me such names as 'bitch' and an 'un-inspirable bitch'. I stood and stared and looked at the gashes in my door, created by the enemy. His weapon of choice: my own for-fun toy. He says it was a plastic bottle. There was no bottle.

He fragmented sentences together as to the reason for this middle-of-the night awaking; he pulled them from the belly of his consciousness. I tried to fall asleep at eleven, was awakened just after two, had to be up and ready for a ride to work, arriving at five. My body was tired, but my mind was now wide-awake. I stood, letting the Enemy get out whatever he thought he needed to say about me/ to me, at this point of our relationship/ living arangment, at this point of the evening, actually morning.

‘You should live by yourself,’ the Enemy told me. ‘You don’t like people. It’s just you and your dog. And you spend all your time in your room. Why don’t you live by yourself?’ The enemy wanted asked but did not want to find out.

This one-sided conversation had become the major problem I’ve had with the Enemy. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t want to hear reason. Doesn’t get it. Leaving me stuck and fighting an enemy in a battle that cannot be won.

I’m not interested in fighting with anyone, physically. I’ve thought about it. I’ve pictured myself doing it. I’ve punched inanimate objects. I recently hurt my right middle knuckle doing so, and I now have to picture myself punching with my left, weaker hand. I’ve said I was a pacifist, and these descriptions might make this statement seem untrue, but I wouldn’t want to be in a brawl. Am fully aware that physical violence doesn’t solve anything. I hope in the future that I am able to express myself verbally, in ways that give meaningful understanding to my enemies. Still, my Enemy calls me passive-aggressive. A term someone planted inside him. I’m passive at times, sure. Aggressive other times, yes. But, even little-ole me knows, It’s when you’re passive-aggressive that your words weaken.

I don’t hate the Enemy. I get made and frustrated and sometimes wish I could break bones. I would never, however, and upon contemplation I find myself sad at the state of my being, and at the attitudes of others.

At the end of our battle the Enemy tells me he likes me. I tell him I want him to be happy. That we have to part ways and cannot live as one, but both have to live without afflicting physical pain on one another. I’m kept awake thinking that I could have done better in selecting enemies. But, that we can’t choose them. And that: The Enemy is within.

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