together we rise

by Mileva Anastanisadou

Young You is looking at Sad Me like I know it all, which is soothing, comforting, as if I still count, but truth is I don’t. Young You stands there, eager to learn, and I pretend I can teach him, that there are secrets I hold that will make him the best player, and Young You is willing to suffer, to prove he’s got what it takes. He’s strong-willed and competitive; his future lies right ahead, unlike mine.

I keep falling and falling and falling since it all ended and this started. The team kicked me out after I grew too old to play. That’s when I died, and the voice was born. The voice started talking, telling me my life was over. It got louder and louder, and I ignored it at first. Don’t overthink, my coach always told me, and I never did. I never did any thinking; I just followed instructions, did everything by the book. I was a good player, until I grew old, outgrew my talent and no matter how hard I tried, how little I thought, I couldn’t run fast enough to keep the ball rolling.

Sad Me shouts at Young You, don’t overthink, and Young You runs and runs, like he’s stopped thinking, like all his effort goes into his legs and there’s nothing left for his brain. He stares at me like I’m a god, while I’m but a former player, a legend turned into a coach, a former Young You turned into an old and bitter me.

I don’t know how to live without playing this game. My therapist suggested I take some time off to think of my options. I remember his look, his pity, like I was too old for this life, like this life took the best of me and decided to spit me out, as if I were tasty once, when I was a young and hopeful me, but not now that I turned into an old and slow and useless me. I taste like shit now, nobody needs a mouthful of me. He gave me meds to stop that stupid voice that did all the thinking I had never been trained to do myself. You’re free, he insisted, but that didn’t calm me down. I don’t need ‘free,’ if it comes with no purpose, I kept wondering what I’d be after, if I didn’t run after a ball.

Young You chases the ball, catches it, he jumps with joy, and Sad Me envies his enthusiasm, I envy it so much I want to crush it.  You can do better, I say, only it comes more harshly than intended and he falls down to his knees; Young You is defeated, exhausted, like I was too often, or better, like I am right now. Soldiers don’t quit, I shout, but Young You keep falling and falling and falling, and he’s crying; he won’t make it, he can’t handle hard battles and wars and competition. Then another Young You storms into the field, a female Young You holds the male Young You in her arms, caresses his hair, wipes his tears, she helps him stand up, and he looks at her like she’s all he needs. She gives me a pitiful look, like she sees right through me, and I think there’s a hidden wisdom inside all those Young Yous, like they know better, like they know that we can’t flourish alone.

We keep falling and falling and falling, we fall over, down, apart, and ‘Prove my love’ by Violent Femmes is playing on the radio; I croon along and Young You is staring at me when I jokingly tell him that this is an alternate version of ‘Light my fire’ by the Doors, about worn-out loves, feelings, people. He looks at me perplexed, like he doesn’t get it, and I don’t care to explain. I just look away, people his age can’t relate to that feeling. Young You is still in his girlfriend’s arms; he’s still hopeful, doesn’t give a shit about the ball. She holds him tight, and he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him, happier than I have ever been, and I think these brand new Young Yous hold the future in their hands, like I’m the human debris and they’re the new blood that will set the wheel of history in motion. Perhaps they’ll soon enter a train that will crash because a bunch of Sad Mes didn’t care for their safety. Perhaps they’ll be dead soldiers in a war that greedy Sad Mes have arranged, or they’ll die from diseases that Sad Mes failed to prevent or eradicate because we have spent our lives running after balls and other solitary goals. Perhaps all Sad Mes didn’t flourish like we thought we did; we only wasted our time chasing dead dreams that made us big for a while but devoured us in the end. We all fall down, and Young Yous turn into Sad Mes in the blink of an eye. Have a break, I tell him, and for a moment I’m not Sad Me anymore, I’m just Old Me: I am the ‘Catcher in the Rye’ who saves kids from falling apart, and we rise, together we rise and we blossom, like it’s spring and we’re flowers.

*Stay tuned for Mileva Anastasiadou’s next monthly installment.

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BIO: Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece and the author of Christmas People and We Fade With Time by Alien Buddha Press. A Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions nominated writer, her work has been selected for the Best Mirofiction Anthology 2024 and Wigleaf Top 50 and can be found in many journals, such as the Chestnut Review, Necessay Fiction, Passages North, and others.