Fighting Mad

I was running on the treadmill a couple of weeks ago when I realized how angry I was. It came out of nowhere, really. I was running along and I felt like I was about to come out of my skull. I don't want to grow up to be like my mom so I figure I should do something about the anger that I have. I yelled outloud that I wanted to be cage fighter and a scarred and bald black guy steps out from behind a door. He says "I can't do nothing about the cage but I can make you a fighter." Little did he know at the time I already was, which is part of the problem. Two days later, I was jogging around the gym (not inside the gym mind you...treadmills are for pansies) and there was music blaring from the AMC theatre next door. It was the Rocky theme music since there is yet another Rocky movie coming out this Christmas. So here I am...with a orange hoodie on jogging with Roc...yes, that's his real name. I guess it's meant to be.

Then I strap up. I have to tape up my hands and get laced into some profighting gloves that smell like sweat that obviously doesn't belong to me. Roc stands in front of me with these round red pads with big black dots in the middle of them...looking like a bullseye. He tells me to go for it. I don't know what happened. I powered up and came forward with my right hand and barely missed Roc's already scarred face. He took the pads off, shook his head a little and proceeded to the far corner to get his headgear. He underestimated me. When I told him I was angy I was serious.

"Raschelle, we are going to have to wrap your hands tighter. If not, you are either going to break your hand or break somone's face."

I guess in a weird way that's the plan...to break something. I held the glove to my face and he tapped my glove which in turn hit my own face and I lit up. Double right, left. Weave. My mouthpiece keeps me from compressing through my teeth. I can only breath through my nose and its not enough because I can't stop. I hear him yell "Come on'" and I can't stop. For every person that has played with my emotions, for every person I gave consent to make me feel bad, everytime I got used, everytime I have had to hold back what I wanted to say to somebody, for everytime I was called cute and patted on the head, for the situations I can't do anything about but be a intuitive bystander...they get it...everytime I hit that bag. I fight so hard sometimes I fall to my knees and cry afterwards. Its hard to tell tears from sweat sometimes. They are both hot, salty, and come from a place that's so deep it's almost too personal.

The bad part about this training is now my anger sits even closer to the surface than it ever did. I am ready to fight at the drop of hat. I am actually waiting on a particular person to come along but for everything/everybody else in between....it's just as bad. I feel like a machine. I am not an even match for most, and it's not fair. I get tired but can't even pay any attention to it because all I am thinking about is the fact that I am not done yet.

I picture some mouthy girl/guy saying the wrong thing to me, and it takes three men to hold me back. I am not talking about hair pulling, swinging windmill arm girl fighting. I am talking about the clean kind. There is a punch and a target and that's all. I am fast and what's worse when I am mad I don't say a word. Sounds awfully close to an assassin...some strange sense of moral flexibility. But you know, the best part about a hitman is that you never feel bad for what you do to them.

Smirk.