The Real Enemy

One could say it starts in the morning. When my eyes open, blearily blinking sleep away, when I yawn, wrinkling my nose at the smell of my breath. Pushing off my covers, brushing my teeth, changing into my clothes, showering, it’s there for all of that. Guilt and anxiety so strong that my stomach hurts even though I know that I don’t have anything to fear. Not here. 

But nighttime isn’t exactly a refuge. It doesn’t prowl the edge of my thoughts the way it does during the hours where sunlight hits drawn curtains, but instead pops up and away before I can fight it, and then back again. If I can manage it, sleeping isn’t much better, although I don’t have the same flashing of memories before me. Instead, everything is startlingly clear and vivid. The brilliant blue of the sky, the bright green of the foliage, the deep red of the— no. 

No. I refuse to go there willingly. Instead, I devote my attention to the soggy bowl of cheerios in front of me. From the living room, snippets of news anchors telling the latest story of a freak plane crash reach me, and I abandon the red ceramic bowl to the sink and go in search of the remote. 

“It’s not good for anyone, living alone. You should move back in with us, you know. And if not, then at least play the news or music or something. I worry about how quiet it always is in that apartment.” My father’s words, from the last time I visited him. I don’t know why I listened, turning on the tv won’t make me less alone, and it’s not like I mind the quiet. My thoughts line up better when there isn’t constant noise, one of the reasons I have a love-hate relationship with people. Humans, in general, are noisy creatures. 

And no, it’s not certain people, but everyone, the entire species, that I often go between loathing and loving. Except for myself, of course. My relationship with myself is just one of hate. 

But here’s the thing about love-hate relationships. Nothing can be equal forever. When two forces are fighting, one has to win. Eventually. And when you’ve seen the things that I’ve seen, done the things that I’ve done, you know that it’ll probably be hate. 

No matter the most beautiful moments on earth, the most awe-inspiring sunrises and acts of kindness and the most selfless people, there’s the ugly things. The bombs and the guns and the pain that radiates from everything alive, and the hate. The hate that fills so many people for the same reasons as why it fills me. Because of the things that they’ve— no, the things we’ve— done. What we’ve seen, what we've heard, what we've said.

I locate the remote and rescue it from it’s spot in between a couch cushion and an armrest. The tv shuts off at the press of a button, and I continue on with my morning. 

Soon, I’m pulling the door shut behind me, waiting for the click of the lock before continuing on my way.

It’s a sweltering day, so muggy that I feel like I’m swimming through the air. My hair is immediately a frizzy mess, and as I run my fingers over the top of my head to smooth it down, another memory comes to me, leaving me with a racing heart and wild eyes. 

The same suffocating heat and humidity, but instead of a street lined with shops and sidewalks packed with shoppers to fill those shops, a jungle. It was never quiet there. The constant sound of the leaves and animals, and the birds. God, those birds never seemed to shut up. I can recall so many times when I considered shooting them from their perches in the trees, just to get a little bit of quiet. 

Of course, they weren’t as loud as my thoughts, banging into the sides of my brain and ricocheting into each other until I had no idea what they meant. But there wasn’t a way to shut off my brain, and to complain about my thoughts being too loud wasn’t a good idea. 

So I blamed the birds, because it was easier. I didn’t actually shoot them down, though. I just wished the real problem was as physically here as those wretched flying rats. 

I push open the door to my destination, and the smell of coffee fills my nose. I breathe in deeply, and make my way to the counter, grateful that at least I don’t have to stand in line to get my $5 coffee. It’s ridiculous, the price, but I don’t have anything better to do with my money or my mornings, and so Starbucks will continue to profit off of me. 

After I’ve ordered, waited for my drink to be ready, and finally gotten my coffee, I leave the store and settle down on a bench at a nearby park. I pull out my phone and scroll mindlessly through my various social media accounts. An old man sitting next to me glances at me and then away, probably ranting internally about the impacts of phones on younger generations. 

“Hi,” Someone says, and I look up. Speaking of younger generations, the owner of the voice can’t be older than four or five. He squints in the bright sunlight coming from behind me, the backwards baseball cap covering his blond curls doing nothing to help. 

“Hey. Where’s your family?” I ask. He points towards a frazzled looking man chasing after a toddler, a baby on his hip. 

“Why does your leg look like that?” He asks me and I swallow. 

“Show some respect, son.” The man next to me says, shuffling his newspaper away. 

“It’s okay.” I plaster a smile across my face. “It’s because I lost this part of my leg while I was serving in the army. I had to get a new leg, and this is what it looks like. It’s called a prosthetic.” 

“Oh. Okay.” He considers my words. 

“That’s a real heroic thing you did for our country.” The man looks at me, respect in his eyes, and I want to tell him that the last thing I am is a hero, but I don’t. 

“Thank you, sir.” I say. 

“Heroic?” The little boy echos. “Like a superhero.”

“Just like that.” The man assures him, and I can’t stop myself from frowning. The boy says something, and I look down at him. 

“What?” I ask, unable to recall what he said. 

“The villain?” He repeats impatiently. “Who is it? All superheroes have a bad guy to fight. Who is it?” 

I stare at him, not sure what to say. Naturally, the answer should be the enemy we fought against in the war. But that answer doesn’t feel right, and anyways, we’re at peace now. So why does it still feel like there’s, as the little boy put it, a “bad guy”?

“What’s your name?” I ask. 

“Jack.” He informs me proudly. 

“Okay, Jack. Superheroes and heroes are different, then, because there’s not always a bad guy in real life.” I tell him. 

“There isn’t?”

“No.” I smile sadly at him. “Anway, I think you should probably go back to your family before they start looking for you.” I suggest. 

“Okay.” He sighs. “Bye!”

“Bye,” I call after him as he runs off. 

I don’t let myself consider the little boy — Jack’s — words for the rest of the day. But as I lie in bed, unable to sleep as usual, they come back to me, and, like so many of my thoughts, I’m unable to send them away. 

Who is the bad guy? It’s not like I truly hate the other side’s soldiers. They’re just people like me who happen to be born someone else. So if it’s not the other side, who is it? 

You, an unavoidable voice whispers. 

But I can’t be. I can’t be both a hero and a villain. That’s not how it works. Another, weaker voice argues. 

Well, you’re not a hero. You’ve killed people! Hero’s don’t kill, everyone knows that. The first voice yells, and the second voice falls silent. There’s no counter argument to that fact, after all. 

I shut my eyes firmly and try to force myself to sleep, but of course, it doesn’t work. And so, sleep not coming, I’m forced to stay with my brain. 

Finally, I sit up in bed and grab my computer, typing a few words into my internet search bar. Words blur across the page as I read article after article. 

Insomnia… nightmares when finally asleep… social isolation… an overwhelming sense of guilt. Phrases jump out at me almost as if highlighted in bright yellow ink. 

And everywhere I look, the big one. PTSD, the sites say, a mental health condition triggered by a traumatic event. Causing nightmares, anxiety, flashbacks, and more. Next, a phone number for a support group. 

I shut down my computer and put it away, then turn over and shut my eyes. 

When morning finally comes, I pull up the tab on my computer, grab my phone, and make a call.