I grasped the knuckle wrap tightly in one hand and wound it neatly and precisely three times over the knuckles of my other hand, then down and around, over the thumb, back up around the back of my hand and down to my wrist, then around three times to Velcro to the inside of my forearm.  I had practised this ritual of knuckle wrapping thousands of times, each time before a tournament match, a sparring match, a class, or a training session. Today it was a tournament.

 

          I stood and picked up my gi and threw it on, then tightened my blue belt carefully around my hips.  Straightening myself out, I took three deep breaths and headed out the red door.  The brightly lit gymnasium that greeted me was alive with cheering fans and fighters.  Thirty-six mats had been laid out, nine to a ring. All four rings contained two fighters each, all in a blur of rapid-fire motion as the kumite progressed.

 

          I made my way to the third ring, the Adult Intermediate ring. I took my place among the fighters in the lineup. Turning inward, I found my place of balance.  In that balance, complex things became simple, and confusion became clear. Gradually, the coming match began to unfold in my mind's eye. I was prepared.

 

          My number was called, and I stepped up to the mat. Bowing reverently to the mat itself, I walked forward three paces, stopped, bowed to the judges. They returned the bow, and I turned to my adversary, a tall blonde-haired young man from a Tae Kwon Do academy. We bowed together, then turned and bowed to the referee.

 

          Once the formalities were done, we struck stances. He assumed a forward offensive stance, I responded with a relaxed, focused cross-stance defensive posture. When the referee called for Kumite to begin, the blonde-haired teenager advanced immediately. He stepped in high with a feint, but I saw his eyes dart low and knew his attack was sure to follow. I swept my lead hand down in a sweeping low block and snapped it back up into a backfist that connected sharply with his solar plexus. The strike was barely a tap, but enough to score a point. The referee called it, and we assumed our stances again. This time I advanced, quick-stepping forward into a cross-stance, bringing my lead leg up into a side kick to the knee. His blocking hand shot down to protect his kneecap, but it was too late. As soon as my kick even connected with his knee, my foot suddenly reversed its course and snapped up into his exposed higher targets, scoring two consecutive points with a two-strike combo. The match was mine.

 

          I won the silver medal in the end. I packed up my bags, shook hands and exhanged pleasantries, smiled, laughed and cheered. I went home and dropped my bag in the closet and my gi in the laundry pile. Then I turned off all the lights, sat in the living room by myself, and cried. I couldn't believe I could fail so badly.

 

 

          I suffer with clinical depression.

 

          I've been living with it for a number of years now, and it's taken its toll. On me, on my family, on my loved ones. It is a huge, black blanket that smothers the light I could shine, the light I know I have inside of me. I have so much to give, so much to tell. I have so many stories and so much love to give the world.

 

          And my soul is bound and chained in an iron prison of helpless despair. It's like a demon in my head, feeding off of my hurt and anguish, stealing my hopes and dreams. I can break boards with most parts of my body. I can shatter clay tiles and concrete slabs with my elbows and knees. And yet the only opponent who ever truly hurt me was the one I couldn't hit back.

 

          My ups are up, my downs are WAY down. People who know me can't figure out why someone like me can be brought down so easily like this. Hell, I can't explain it. I don't understand it myself. I've memories of myself, curled up in bed and whimpering like a frightened schoolgirl  at the overwhelming burdens of life. In these hopeless places I find an inky well of dark despair  so incredibly black that I begin to fear happiness, to back away from hope.  Some of the people I've looked up to the most in this world have only laughed at me, and shrugged me off like I, and my problems, are inconsequential. Who knows? Perhaps they are.  Maybe there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and if I keep on crawling through the dirt and the muck, I'll find it. Maybe.

 

 

                                    There's got to be a light.

 

 

 

                                                          Right?