Deserving Undue Guilt

Ever since I was a little girl, I was a little warrior. The little protector, the little savior. I didn't run from little boy bullies, I killed bugs without flinching, even though somehow the fear appeared when I grew up. I was the kid who defended the smallest kids, who helped them up and walked them to the nurse if they needed, help fix whatever was broken. I was the tough girl, the tomboy, the quiet one (it was always the quiet ones who were the most dangerous,as they said in my high school.) My dad was a Marine, my mom could best him. I was born a little warrior. It was my first nature. My second was my empathy. This strong empathy that created this ability to damn near feel other people's emotions as if they were my own.

I remember Columbine, I was only eight. I remember watching the news with mom. I saw the sad people, I didn't know the pain they were going through, but I could see it so clearly. I saw my mom tearing up as she pulled me closer, not wanting to think of someone taking her child away from her at a place where she is supposed to be safe. She said as much, but she didn't have to. I saw it on her face right before I moved from the floor to the seat next to her on the couch. It was nine years before I realized what it was, that feeling I had when I felt the need to do something.

When September 11 happened, we watched the news at school. The students, faculty, even the lunch ladies and janitors all crammed into the few classrooms that held the small middle school's rolling televisions, and we watched. The kids were asking over and over, "Why are they going in the building? They don't know if it is safe!" The faculty was mostly silent, unable to answer, some were in tears, the few words I heard from them were along the lines of, "I hope no one else gets hurt. I hope they get out." At eleven, all I can remember thinking was, 'I wish I could help.' All I could think about was being there and doing something. I didn't want to plant a tree or draw a memorial, I wanted to BE there physically to help, even if it was just holding someone while they cried.

I was in high school when Katrina hit. I spent so much time trying to think up scenarios where my mom would allow me to spend even a few days in Louisiana. I knew the conversation would go, " Mom, I want to go help." "No, it is too dangerous." For over a year, I looked up as many local volunteer groups that made frequent trips as I possibly could, but none pleased my mom. I was stuck bringing cans and donating money, which I know helped, but was pure torture for ever so active me. But, it wasn't all bad when I noticed something that got me thinking. The camo gear. The uniform blues. The people trained to help. After that, the police and the soldiers were the first people I'd notice anywhere.

Senior year the pieces came together to show me a picture of who I am. I excelled in NJROTC an AFJROTC. I looked up to policewomen. I was the kid talking the ears off of the military speakers that came to the school. I was buds with all the campus police at my high school. I pretty much had a list of questions for my neighbor who was going through the police academy. I was absurd levels of helpful, friendly, and caring. Honestly, I never seriously put the pieces together until my best friend said to me, "Just so you know, you cannot join the military. If you die, I will kill you." She was sure that I had already decided to do so, when I wasn't sure if I could be successful. When she said that, it was all so obvious.

I began to talk to recruiters, look up information on the police force, pretty much getting my life started, when I hit a roadbump. The one that taught me my morals, my rules to live by, the one who taught me to live as honestly as possible. My Mother. My mom that lived a hard life. My mom who has seen the worst life has to offer. My mom who taught her daughter to never pick on the underdog, to never be biased or judgmental, to keep an open mind, to love those you love with all your heart, to base your beliefs on solid facts, and to never budge on your beliefs on hearsay alone. My mom with only one child. The last four months of my senior year was spent arguing about what I would do when school was over. We compromised. College first, military after. The hope was that I would enlist as an officer with a degree.

I started community college and got a part time job. Juggling the two came pretty easily, I was raised a hard worker. The school work wasn't too hard or heavy, I was only taking four classes. The job was pretty much easy money with my natural people skills, mindless retail gruntwork was cake. I spent that year making new friends and working to help pay my bills. The next year was spent working to pay my school bills so I could take more classes, the year after was working while trying to find a better job to pay off my now overdue bills. Now five years after graduating, five years of almost useless work experience, five years of weight gain, five years of watching terrible things happen and not helping the way I feel I will best help, I have crashed into a sinkhole. But I have figured a way out.

I had gained thirty pounds since high school, went from being able to do up to 83 push-ups in two minutes to only fifteen, over one hundred sit-ups to somewhere around thirty, but I found a silver lining. the muscle was still there, it just needs to be worked, which is what my goal was this year. Around this time last year, I vowed to be in the military by my twenty-third birthday.As of July, I am twenty-three years of age and one month. I've lost 8 pounds, can now do ten push-ups(shakily) in a row, and can do over fifty sit-ups in two minutes. It is good, it is something, but it bothers me. I question my dedication to this dream, I question my dedication to giving myself this life that would make me so happy to live.

I question it because the only time I really broke a sweat was while running. I question it because there would be weeks at a time where there would be no exercise outside of working hours. I question it because this was the second time I let my goal slip away. I have spent the last three months making excuses for myself and I wonder what is putting me off? When I think of myself in this position where I am put in helping situations, my heart soars. This is what I want, this is my dream. All I've ever wanted was to help make the world a better place. I smile at strangers sometimes just because. I run to help when I see anyone in any situation struggling. That is who I am, so what is wrong with me that I can't seem to get more motivated?

That is why yesterday, after spending two days off doing absolutely nothing, when I heard the news of the day, I felt guilty. What happened in Aurora, Colorado broke my heart. There are only a few places left in the world where you can let your guard down and relax into another world, but it seems there are people who are hell bent on taking them away. I know that even if I was a police officer or in the military, chances are I would not have been anywhere near the shooting anyway, but thinking about that shooting makes me think of all the tragedies that have happened near me that I wanted to help resolve. I think about all of the overseas victims of similar events that I could help. I think about everything I see on the news every day where I could be a part of the solution. Instead, I am sitting at home wishing, when I am healthy enough to get started on doing.

I don't know where I will get my motivation. I'm not sure if I'm going to figure it out now or later. Maybe this is some kind of pre-mid-midlife crisis. I have until I'm twenty-five to have my mid-midlife crisis, that may be the real bad one. In all honesty, I probably won't know until I know, and that is something that bothers me.