The Fight

When I was twelve years old, I became a warrior. The fight between myself and my illnesses was grueling, but it was a battle I didn’t intend to lose. Day and night, the war waged on, and at sixteen I became the target of abuse. I fought the words fired at me like gunshots, put on my bulletproof armor every day and over time it wore thin so that the screams like knives could reach the skin of my soul. Eventually that battle ended, the scars still pink when I shed my battered vest, the voices in my head crueler than ever and I erected barricades around the fragile person I had become.

At twenty-two I nearly became a casualty. The battle raged on between my ears and my body betrayed me. The blood within my veins turned against me, but by then I had found Him. He held his shield strong against the enemies that bunkered down in my brain, his orders clear and consice as he made sure the doctors took care of my husk. He was the general, his demand one thing and one thing only: do not give up the fight.

Now I am twenty-eight and I am amazed I have made it this far. My general is still beside me, his barricades erected against the oncoming army of sickening thoughts. I am still the commander in chief though, and I will not give up my title. I may lose a few battles, but never the war. I won’t give up on myself. I won’t give up on this life.

I won’t give up, ever. War torn as I am, weary as I may be, I will fight until the very end. I expect you to as well.

So get up, soldier. Victory is on the horizon. I want you there to see it.