A punching bag. At sixteen, that is all I wanted for Christmas.
My dad tried to convince me that I wanted a little speed bag. He said "you'll get out more energy and aggression with that."
He may have been right but it was not what I wanted. Not what I felt like I needed.
I wanted to hit something. But I wanted to hit it hard. I wanted to be able to hit and kick and punch and tear it a part with all of my pent up fury. I could punch it, kick it, push it and even body slam it.
I couldn't do that with a speed bag.
I got a punching bag for Christmas and my dad hung it in the basement for me. One of the last unfinished rooms in the house. It was my dads old work room, so-to-say, full of wood for the construction and completion of our house that he and his brothers had built. There was a tall black and wood table for a large radial arm saw (or at least I think that was the type of saw), a couple of five gallon buckets, various tools, a few hidden treasures left from us kids when we'd use it as a play room, several spiders no doubt, and who knows what else. Now in the center hung my punching bag. A large blue bag suspended from shiny silver chains with the word "Everlast" stamped on it.
I'd bloody my knuckles on that bag.
Sometimes my aggression would result in a black and blue hand, or two. I didn't have gloves but I eventually got some wraps. I had to learn how to keep my thumbs in and hold a tight fist. Little things like that. Then I could unleash and beat the crap out of that bag, the blood scars evidence that I had won... And yet I didn't feel any less defeated.
Sometimes I feel that same pent up aggression. Fury. The desire to tear something apart and roar like the Hulk as he turns green with rage.
In the car I felt like ripping the steering wheel right off and throwing it through the window. I didn't because I understood the consequences of my actions. I knew that would mean no car to drive and a pricey repair or replacement. But I really wanted to unleash. It would be so satisfying to just tear it right off and hear it crashing through the glass as it shattered into a million little pieces of sparkling satisfaction. But I wouldn't even try because I knew I didn't want to cause damage that would later be regretted.
At least I have learned that much.
...But I'm not strong. This hadn't occurred to me before.
Then the thought, "I probably couldn't actually tear the steering wheel off... really." Probably I wasn't actually strong enough to get it all the way off. I realized I have never actually tried. Always resisting because I didn't really want to deal with the damage.
Then my scientific nature set in and I wondered if I really actually could (How come I had never considered this?). I still was reluctant because really I didn't even want to cause minimal damage. "I'll just give it a little tug," just to satisfy curiosity. It was completely resistant to my effort. Not the tiniest bit of insult. So I decided to give it an honest yank. Completely solid. No tension on it at all. My best effort could not yield even the slightest stress on that steadfast steering wheel...
