jits

Jits is suppose to be my safe place. It’s suppose to be the bus in which I transfer the next broken lindseys. It’s suppose to be the team, the community, the family. It was the thing I used to remind myself the answer to the question I have been riddled with every night at 3am for the past eight years.

“I can handle anything.” Written on the gym walls.

“I am strong as fuck.” Written on my gi.

“I am powerful.” Written on my rash guard.

“I am still alive.” Written in sweat.

I lost my proof. I became human, and a weak one at that. I am still broken. My body cracked and everyone saw. The mat isn’t safe. Jits is where I find out I am just another broken body. My bones aren’t made of solid belief. They are broken bones. Unusable. Hindering even. Damaged from all the damage. My body isn’t my warrior fighting for me. She isn’t the hero. She isn’t the fighter. She is the score board. She is the unusable target that’s holes are too big to be significant. Jits was suppose to be the showcase where you prove what you are. But jits became the mirror of harsh reality.