Win Some, Lose Some

Right, right, left. Right, right, left.

Equal number, each fist.

It didn’t take more than the first few hits in the center of the bag before I was lost to the moment—no anxiety, no panic—nothing but me, the bag, and my fists.

Left, right, left, right.

Right, left, right, left.

My breathing was steady and each hit perfectly accurate. My feet carried me easily on the mat and around the bag.

Left, left, right. Left, left, right.

Right, right, left. Right, right, left.

Each impact traveled from my fists up through my arms and into my shoulders. My hips and chest tilted to receive each blow. My mind became empty and clear. I barely registered the slight movement near the door when Mayra entered. It didn’t matter.

Right, left, right, left.

Left, right, left, right.

Kick left.

Kick right.

Roundhouse left.

Roundhouse right.

Butterfly.

I took a step back to the corner of the mat and tried to catch my breath. I knew she was still there, watching me silently, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t mind her being there. I leaned over and braced my gloves against my knees, exhaustion engulfing my limbs.

“I'll tell you,” I finally replied when I found my voice again.

“You don't have to,” she said.

“I know.” I took a deep breath and righted myself again. “I want to.”

Back in the living room, Mayra and I sat down on the couch with fresh glasses of soda.

“I don't know where to start.” It was hard to admit that to her.

“Start with whatever you want to say,” Mayra said.

I sat back against the cushion and took a long breath. I already knew the words I needed to say, which made talking about it easier.

I can do this.

“The first doctor said I had attention deficit disorder,” I told her. “She said I couldn’t focus on anything because of that. Dad said she was crazy—I was focused on everything at once. The next one said I had obsessive compulsive disorder.”

I rubbed my hands on the thighs of my jeans and wriggled my toes around in the carpet. I was still hot from the boxing, and I hadn’t put my shirt back on either.

“So, you’re OCD?” Mayra asked. I realized I hadn’t continued the story.

“Not…exactly,” I replied. I glanced over and sighed before continuing. “Have you heard of autism?”

“Sure,” Mayra said. “That’s kids who can’t talk to their parents, right? And they do the same thing over and over again?”