One fabulous Thinker

    It doesn't start loud. And that's what makes it so dangerous. I know what rage looks like up close, not from a distance, but from the inside. Growing up, I handled most things with my fists. Arguments, conflict, disrespect my first language was anger, and my hands usually finished the conversation. I don't remember every fight. Most of them blur together now. But there's one night I've never forgotten, not because of what happened, but because of what I felt. I was so full of rage that I punched a hole straight through the wall. I don't even remember what I was angry about. I just remember the feeling. Like something inside me had to get out, and it didn't care what it went through to do it. There were other moments, too. I remember coming home one night covered in blood, not mine, and my mother looked at me, took it all in, and simply asked: "Is that blood yours?" I told her no. She let out a slow breath, told me to go shower, and walked away....