It has been a life long fight that I think I have just about won. A “beast” within me that has wanted to destroy my life by pushing those I love away has reared its head time after time. Its existence is evidenced by holes in walls, dents in refrigerators, near road rage, bloody fights, and broken hearts. However, of late I have mellowed out, leashing the beast, but not quite caging him. I am in control now and only the worst of circumstances could ever loose him again.
The beast within first appeared on a playground when I was eight years old. An innocent game of “for keeps” “ringer” marbles complete with shooters, cats-eyes, and steelies resulted in a little disagreement and shoving. Before I knew it I was entangled with a fellow shooter and rolling around on the ground with a crowd of playmates gathered around shouting “Get’em”!
Besides my often-embarrassing over-productive forehead sweat glands, an easily bloodied nose cursed me all my youth. I could just rub a slight itch on the end of my nose and the blood flowed for several minutes. My wrestling partner rubbed across my nose going for a headlock and the damn broke. He immediately released me, finding blood on his arm and jumped up. I sat up and let the blood drip off my nose onto the ground.
Everything would have been fine and the beast would have stayed inside had he not pointed at me and said haughtily “Look! I won! I beat him! His nose is bloody!”
Someone laughed and agreed with him and the beast was born. I jumped up, catching the former wrestler by surprise. Before he could react I had him by the throat, on his back, and his nose slammed hard with my fist. The kid finally focused and then zoomed in on the drop of blood forming at the end of my nose. His eyes widened as it dropped right on his nose and I splattered it with my fist again. The second drop was followed by another blow and then another, splattering and mingling both our bloods all over his face and my fist.
For some reason, the third graders became aware that the boy was not breathing well due to the strangle hold I had on him. A couple of guys pulled me away and the boy sat gasping for air, much as I was, but for different reasons. I actually wanted to kill the boy and may have had something not moved the others to react. The incident scared me and haunted me for the rest of my life and every time I allowed the beast its freedom, I remembered and became even more ashamed.
I even used the incident in my fictional book some thirty-five years later (Chapter 2 – Cross+Hairs). It was frightening to me, as I wrote that such a violent true-life incident fit right in with the character of a serial killer.
It (the beast) is there, right below the surface, waiting to pounce in all of us. The difference between the true violent person and us is that we can control him. Some of us can learn how to and others cannot. The only problem is that it takes years to learn, in most cases, and bad things can happen before the lesson ends.
Gaining control of the beast is one of the great blessings of aging!
The beast within first appeared on a playground when I was eight years old. An innocent game of “for keeps” “ringer” marbles complete with shooters, cats-eyes, and steelies resulted in a little disagreement and shoving. Before I knew it I was entangled with a fellow shooter and rolling around on the ground with a crowd of playmates gathered around shouting “Get’em”!
Besides my often-embarrassing over-productive forehead sweat glands, an easily bloodied nose cursed me all my youth. I could just rub a slight itch on the end of my nose and the blood flowed for several minutes. My wrestling partner rubbed across my nose going for a headlock and the damn broke. He immediately released me, finding blood on his arm and jumped up. I sat up and let the blood drip off my nose onto the ground.
Everything would have been fine and the beast would have stayed inside had he not pointed at me and said haughtily “Look! I won! I beat him! His nose is bloody!”
Someone laughed and agreed with him and the beast was born. I jumped up, catching the former wrestler by surprise. Before he could react I had him by the throat, on his back, and his nose slammed hard with my fist. The kid finally focused and then zoomed in on the drop of blood forming at the end of my nose. His eyes widened as it dropped right on his nose and I splattered it with my fist again. The second drop was followed by another blow and then another, splattering and mingling both our bloods all over his face and my fist.
For some reason, the third graders became aware that the boy was not breathing well due to the strangle hold I had on him. A couple of guys pulled me away and the boy sat gasping for air, much as I was, but for different reasons. I actually wanted to kill the boy and may have had something not moved the others to react. The incident scared me and haunted me for the rest of my life and every time I allowed the beast its freedom, I remembered and became even more ashamed.
I even used the incident in my fictional book some thirty-five years later (Chapter 2 – Cross+Hairs). It was frightening to me, as I wrote that such a violent true-life incident fit right in with the character of a serial killer.
It (the beast) is there, right below the surface, waiting to pounce in all of us. The difference between the true violent person and us is that we can control him. Some of us can learn how to and others cannot. The only problem is that it takes years to learn, in most cases, and bad things can happen before the lesson ends.
Gaining control of the beast is one of the great blessings of aging!
