I am not proud of it but I tend to respond violently to certain factors. I am not much of an instigator but have always had little trouble reacting in kind. I have always liked to Fight and have had little difficulty excelling at it. I am rather good, if the truth be told. It has been a few years since my fists last encountered a Face. As I age, my reaction, my impulse, has been easier to control and seems to have found a peaceful place. I am not sure if my Bi Polar disorder has something to do with the way I once was. Most certainly, since the proper medication found me, I have had little reason, let alone the drive to react in such a manner. At this point in my life, it seems, I have been tamed through pharmaceutical means. This has little bearing on the way I used to be. My fervid nature apparently started right from the get-go. I was a bully throughout my first 16 years. I had my reasons, at least I told myself that on occasion. Being handed the name “Kelly” gender fucked my social game rather inconveniently. I became rather vehement when someone would state, right to my  face, “That’s a girl’s name.” I hated those seventeen letters more than anything and they have always rubbed me the wrong way. I have to wonder if gender neutral names like Tracy, Sydney, Alex and Taylor all inspire the bearer to react in the same fashion. It is from this quandary that I first learned to punch someone right in the face. I have had much practice doing so over the past 50 years, not that I have been counting. Things always change. I have gotten used to a non-violent moderate reaction. I’m still nasty at times but it is usually directed and in the privacy of my home, office or automobile. I’m not sure if my road rage and verbal onslaughts are not just a venting system for my true violent nature. The main volcano seems to have been dampened. I have control, there is no impulse, not anymore. The extreme intensity of both my emotions and my convictions seem harnessed, well, until someone does something and I want to punch them right in the face.                                                                          

            All I did was keep the class a few minutes into the lunch hour. I still believe my question merited the time and my teacher’s response. It wasn’t really a big deal to anyone else. Out of nowhere he jumped right onto my back. I was only 8 years old (or so) but I handled the situation like any pro would. The first shot was an elbow to the face. He fell off me like a bug that had been swatted. I gave him the time to get up although I later wished I had just kicked him a few times in the head. This was not my style. I paused as he stood and regained his focus. A crowd began to form when he rushed me with ill intent. It only took one hard shot to the nose to stop him in his tracks. He dropped and curled up in pain on the sidewalk. I towered over him, waiting to see if he had anything Left in him, not that there was anything there to begin with. I left him and so did the crowds. He wobbled on the ground in a blood-soaked mess. I turned around and I laughed at him. His mother was not amused by my actions. She claimed I had beaten her boy for no reason at all. I attacked him and not the other way around. She called me a bully so my mother called him a weakling. It was a screaming match almost immediately. The same energy that met us boys, apparently lived in our parent also. For the record, like mother like son. My Mom could have easily wiped the floor with her, just as I did with her whiny kid. At least the two women did not take to fisticuffs. I have always been hard on myself for reacting the way I did. I wish I had been a different person back then and simply walked away. I remember why I didn’t. I was left no choice. He first attacked me, then continued his rampage even after being met with an elbow to the head. Yes, he deserved everything he got but I still wish I had been the better man, despite the monkey on my back. I did not welcome this assault nor do I feel my reaction was beyond reason. If I had truly followed my impulses, I would have taken a few shots to his noggin with my foot. Despite my age, I tried to hold myself in reserve. You really do get what you give, tit for tat and all that stuff.

            At 22, I spent most of my weekends hitchhiking back and forth between London, Ontario and my home in Strathroy, about 50 km west. I was exploring my sexuality, I was exploring my youth. One August evening, I found myself rather intoxicated with nowhere to go and no way home. I don’t remember much about that evening, at least not after I drank more than half of a bottle of tequila. I was shit-faced, to say the least. I must have found myself overcome and passed out on a bench in the middle of Victoria Park. Located dead in the middle of the downtown core, I am surprised no one called the police or interrupted my inebriation. I woke up in a haze. I was just sitting there trying not to puke all over myself or the bench I had slept on. I heard them coming from a distance. You could clearly hear some girl who was shooting off her mouth. She looked like she had escaped from Newfoundlandand he was a shadow that reigned from behind her. I just sat there and waited for them to pass. She saw me and started right away. I have no idea what provoked her but I imagine it was valid in her mind. She was as drunk then as I had been the night before. When I told her to “shut the fuck up,” she reacted like any attention whore would. She rushed me, screaming holy war. I simply avoided her. She would pass in one move then fall on her face in momentum. It was like trying to escape a moth that keeps floating in your face. She just kept coming and coming some more. At one point, as I stood in front of a very large tree, she tried to cannonball me with the full force of her body. In one swift move, I avoided her completely. She just kept going, face first right into that giant trunk. She bounced off it like an Indian rubber ball. It didn’t knock her out but she just laid there, blood dripping from her face somewhere. It was at this point that her silent partner finally had something to add. He called me this and he called me that but it was when he accused me of beating a woman that knocked me over the line. In one motion, I walked over to him and laid one full force into his face. Blood started flowing from an orifice. Suddenly, he backed away and started shuffling towards  the centre of the park. She scurried behind him like a wet rat would. Their retreat failed to shut them the hell up. All  the way through the  park and into the next lot, they hemmed and hawed. The last time I was verbally assaulted like this was when they kicked me out of the PentecostalChurch I used to attend. I will have to admit that the entire experience left me slightly dazed and confused. Perhaps it was what was left of Jose Cuervo within me that made me think I might have been dreaming. It was like waking up from one of those pseudo-nightmares we all have. I wasn’t sure it was real. All I know is that I never laid a finger on her during the entire melodrama. In grade 8, I had punched Judy Wardell in the face when she pulled down my pants, and all, in the middle of the Colborne Streetpublic school football field. Years later and the same impulse was apparently quelled by tequila and only a few hours sleep. I had a choice in the matter. I could have easily nailed her hard in the head, defending myself from her onslaught. I did no such thing. I simply did what any pacifist would do and got out of the way.

            In all the years of confrontation, for all the battles I took with glee, I have only lost one fight. I’m not bragging, it’s just the truth. I suppose the savage within me has something to do with that. I never stopped, but the once. If that part of me was activated, it doesn’t matter if it’s dirty fighting or just straight violence, I would never give up, I would never stop fighting. I’ll rip the eyes out of your head and skull fuck you to death if you give me a reason. Unfortunately, this is a part of me. I may have mastered it but it remains intact for the most part. I have learned over the years not to give it attention. The internal struggle isn’t even much of a struggle these days. I am calm, I am in control and I certainly don’t believe that people should beat on each other, regardless of the reason. I find it strange how the one time I lost a fight has influenced me more than any one of the other scrimmages from my past. It humbled me. I could blame the alcohol. I could blame my big mouth but it was those two guys who literally kicked the shit out of me. It wasn’t even a real fight. It was more like some experiment in silent terror. I really don’t remember much. I know I was standing in line at the Taco Bell drive-up window when they started shooting their mouths off. The two of them stood just a few people behind me.  I was so drunk but it only helped me block out what happened next. As they started making holocaust and Nazi jokes, I turned around and told them to “shut the fuck up.” It’s an old adage of mine but still works best. The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning in the drunk tank. The officers were oh so friendly and I thank them for leaving me handcuffed all night in a sealed cell. Apparently, someone called the police as a few gentlemen kicked the crap out of a drunk fool. By the time the police got there, they were gone. I was, I am told, curled up in a bloody ball. When they released me, I realized I was damaged goods. My face was swollen with large cuts under my nose and across my bottom lip. Both eyes were beaten into blue. My ribs, my back, my legs were all covered with a large and small mix of bruising. I ached, my head ached and my ass ached. There was not one part of me that didn’t look like it had been to boot camp. I am much more tempered these days. I still have a big mouth but I no longer rely on brute skill to defend myself. There have even been a few times when my temper has served in helping others defend themselves. The gay bashing I interrupted with a kick to the balls is but one example of always being prepared. All in all, I find the entire idea of fighting irrelevant now. If I need to protect myself or some other, I have the technique and the will to. Being vehement does mean you have to surrender to the chaos. You can tame it, but that doesn’t mean it will ever go away.   

            I have never, not ever started a fight. There is no first blood on me to bear the stain. I have only ever reacted to violence. I have never instigated a single physical response. I may become vehement but I manage to keep it in check. If you rush me or strike me or try to, I have the right to stop you from doing it. I believe in a fair fight until someone gets dirty, then all bets are off. I occasionally find myself standing in position, ready to go and then my conscience stops me. It’s not that I can’t act on my impulse, I have been granted the ability to control my impulses. They become just that, impulses, not actions. There are always exemptions to the reality we create. I have on more than one occasion reacted to a situation more than I should have. There is no excuse but I will say considering the severity of my Bipolar Disorder, I think a 90% success rate is a miracle in itself. Sometimes when a feeling rushes over you, it doesn’t matter your resolve, the amount of medications you are taking, or best wishes from Jesus, one can lose it. Anger is a serious weapon in the right hands. Not everyone has control all the time. We all explode but not everyone is violent. The adult me looms over the angry me and seems to win out every time. This is supposed to be a good thing but I often wish things could sometimes be the way they were rather than the way they are. I am constantly running into people who deserve a punch in the fucking face. 

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