Personal Narrative: The Arrow

The Arrow and The Bullet
In the beginning of last year, I discovered that endless thoughts race through my mind without my control which caused me to be nervous all the time. On top of these unnecessary flashbacks, I basically have responsibilities like school and work that I have to balance. I can’t afford to lose focus. Every minute counts. I needed to do something. I needed a distraction, so I did my fair amount of research. I engaged in activities that would somehow ease my spirit, food for the soul: baking, cooking, reading, meditation, yoga, pilates, online shopping, movie binging, running, concerts. You name it. I like running the most because it blocks me out from reality. It’s like reading a book or when the lights go down at the stadium, the intro music starts to play and the stage lights up.

You’re temporarily in a different world and you’re too absorbed in the moment. You don’t have to think about your problems. Your attention drifts off to how good it feels. The characters, the angst, the climax, the breeze, the deafening high pitched screams, the bass. It’s relief in a bottle.
When that winter ended, the melting of snow encouraged me to wake up every morning and borrow DVDs from the library since the sidewalks were no longer dangerous. Nothing is more relaxing than a good movie. In the middle of my vibrant discovery, I pause American Sniper and think to myself, “That’s a lot of guns”. Which brought me to wonder: Since when did I have this interest in Action/Thriller/Suspense movies? I never liked violence but now I do and that’s what I watch 90% of the time? When and how did it really start? My fear of weapons and gashes. Blood.
I remember in Psychology class, I wouldn’t even dare to watch a snippet from an episode of some detective series that our teacher showed us because it was too graphic for me. A body chopped up into fifty different parts, scattered all over the gravel, cones surrounding the scene. It was so morbid and I was ashamed because I was the only one in class who covered her eyes. I honestly felt like I was going to throw up. One of my friends, Diana, whispered to me “Are you ok?” My face was obviously pale. “Stop” she said to the teacher with force. I silently thank her for that. When I got home, I told my mother what happened and she introduced me to aversion therapy. It’s been two years and I’m loving the free medication. I smirk as I play Jason Bourne.
I met Diana in sophomore year. We were on the same yellow school bus so it was convenient for us to have small talks in the morning on the way to school and whine about our upcoming tests in the afternoon on the way back home. As we got closer, we started to develop deep conversations and not just the recent announcements of tour dates by the musicians we love. She opened up about how her mother, Elizabeth has suffered from multiple episodes of mental breakdowns in the past. It started when Elizabeth didn’t seek help when she witnessed the aftermath of her nephew, William’s suicide. His older brother, Henry, convinced his dear wife to let William, a senior in college at that time, spend the summer over with them at their beach house in Long Island. He felt down after his girlfriend of 5 years broke up with him the night before their anniversary. It was noon when a gunshot echoed throughout the villa and the toddler, Diana started crying. The maids rushed to the dining room to convince Elizabeth not to come in the basement. Curiosity lured her downstairs and to her horror, the lifeless body drowned in a red puddle, twitching non-stop, bits of the brain slowly oozing out of the ear, blood splattered on the wall, a pungent smell lingered in the room. Diana told me the disturbing story one afternoon on the ride back home. “She just kept the trauma to herself and never talked to anyone about it” Diana said softly. Emotions bottled up had to burst somehow. My eyes went wide when she nodded sheepishly. “Wow. Thats terrible.” I squeaked. The bus stopped which gave me the queue to get up from my seat. “See you tomorrow!” She yelled from the window. I waved at her in return. I clutched my North Face backpack in horror as the image replayed in my brain like a broken karaoke. I entered the code of the garage door and it annoyingly rumbled like thunder as it opened. The sound matched my heartbeat.
I caught up with Diana back in the fall after graduation.

They moved to Boston due to Elizabeth’s condition. She tells me how she is worried that she’ll end up like her mother because the illness is hereditary and that she is going through so many trials adding up to her anxiety and I tell her how nervous I am with my first job interview. Her voice shakes as she yells through the wire “I told her many times that she qualifies for free health care and she won’t even go to at least one session! This is the third episode in two years and I’m tired!” I tell her not to lose hope. “ Her boat sank, don’t let yours sink too” It’s getting late and we both say our goodbyes. I take a deep breath as I stare at the piece of paper in front of me. Written in cursive form is the contact information of the person I needed to call to confirm my appointment.I hoped that she won’t pick up so it’ll lead to voice mail. I’ve never done a voice mail before. Please don’t pick up. Please don’t pick up. She doesn’t. Here goes nothing. I got lucky. After the most nerve-racking fifteen seconds of my life, I hang up and read a dozen articles about constructing basic voice mails. Baby

steps.
My mother would always tell me about the story of the bow and arrow. The distance of the arrow to its final destination will depend on how far the string is stretched backwards. You will get as far as you are being pulled back. “I bet if I told you to roast that chicken, you wouldn’t even know what to do” “Do you even know what a CV is?” “We don’t see you getting in a big school.” Insults and criticism motivate you to improve your performance. My eyes drift off as I bookmark the thirtieth article for that night.
One afternoon in the spring of 2016, I decided to put on my workout gear, a combination of Nikes and Adidas, all black, and head outside. It was a beautiful day instead of the usual damp and gloomy weather. Why not? As I approached my third mile, my phone vibrated, signalling a text notification. What is it now? I thought to myself. The words read: “I did it”. Attached to the end of her text is an Emoji of an anchor. It’s been a year since we last spoke to each other. She finally saw a therapist. I was happy for her. Suddenly, an image of a black shadow standing in a dark room flashes through my mind.
Fingers are trembling as the cold material pierces through fragile skin. I see William in the dark room, tense and sullen. His face switches to Diana’s. She wants to do it. She is stubborn like her mother. She exhales loudly as she thinks of the work needed to be done in order to swerve to another, much easier, less chaotic lane. She thinks of her mother, Elizabeth. Suddenly, flashbacks of her carrying boxes to the elevator while her mother is in the hospital appear in her brain. She is fifteen again and running in the middle of a snowstorm to catch the next bus to Elizabeth’s office. She looks at the boxes, different sizes and multiple colors, stacked on top of another, like cars in traffic. A lane with less traffic is boring. Where’s the excitement? What is life without a lot of color? A bitter laugh erupts within her but she grins regardless. Her face shifts to my own. I think of my children. She thinks of her grandchildren. I think of my grandchildren’s children. She is not a carbon copy. I put the firearm down and grab the longer weapon next to it. She throws it to the wall. I pull the string back, farther and farther ‘till my knuckles turn white. She lights a match. I want to help myself. I look up at the sky. The sun came up anyway even after this week of endless downpour. I pick my pace and I keep running.
I think about my uneasiness. I don’t want to end up like Elizabeth. If she wanted help, she could have asked for it yet she chose not to and now her daughter is the one suffering from her decisions. The initiative begins with me. We are the writers of our own story. We are the artists of our own framed artwork and the paint to be splattered onto the blank canvas lies within our hands. William pulled the trigger to end his life and Elizabeth pulled the trigger to accept her fate of depression. It was their choice. I refuse to end up like them. I can’t imagine how it feels like to be in their shoes. Will I be able to cope after witnessing a gruesome death in my own home? Will I be able to handle the fact that the person I loved the most, is carrying the child of my best friend? Situations are handled differently depending on the person but what we all have in common is that our journey in this world will end inevitably. Although inanimate objects, both the arrow and bullet have a final destination like living things. You only need the muscles in your hand to pull the trigger meanwhile you need the muscles in your upper body to propel the arrow. It takes more patience and accuracy. Obviously a lot more work but it’s worth it.
So was it wrong for them to do so? I don’t know. But I only know one thing. I admit that I enjoy watching movies that involve a lot of guns, but in real life, I prefer archery more than firing.