.12.
I didn't want to stain white walls with my blood so I went downstairs and wrapped my wrists. Not my hands, but wrapped my wrists so tightly that they would've give no matter how hard i hit and or how much i gave. And then I used the heavy bag.
Not once in my life have i acted on my anger in that manner. I use my anger, yes; i have never unleashed it. Always I've used control, let it out in a trickle- to acheive what needs to be done in all coldness or to drain out until i have nothing left. There's always been a part of my that holds very tightly on the reins of primal nature and never lets go. This time I seized of my fury.
I kept some modicum of control because otherwise I wouldn't have stayed downstairs.
The heavy bag wasn't a need but the only response I could find. I wasn't going to pace like a caged dog until I found something else to rip apart.
At some point I stopped and looked at myself. Without the black gi and the hair long to cover the rest of my face it looses a bit of the intimidation factor that I seized hold of for sparring. Overall, small. Some extra weight but only noticeable by culture's standards. What i would see- Muscles still toned. Shoulders broad, arms and chest strong, stomach muscles splitting into definition even *with* the extra weight. What others would see- the large eyes, the small mouth only used in smiling; the face mostly blank from revealed expression except whatever they would want to read into it. Overall, small. No stature for posturing; the only readable expression possible in the blazing eyes; far to easy to misconstrue. My womanhood belies me. It's no wonder people have difficulty figuring me out; there is little to go off of. Just enough to assume a picture that's easily inaccurate. What i see- the hands, deceptively casual but poised, an unnatural red dyed black with sweat and grime, skin falling off and blood pooling. What do they see?
I've kept my speed and can still strike effectively in a flurry. Not quite maximizing striking power the way i used to- i'll have to train that further.- but enough. certainly enough.
At some point Mom came down and told me I should put on gloves. I guess sensei's rubbing off on her; he doesn't let us go barehand- understandable, since he doesn't want us bleeding on the bags. But I hate the feeling of bag gloves, bags ruin your chops, and boxing gloves... well, when i want weight behind my punches, i want it to be my weight, and I'm not interested in padding.
When I felt a familiar tingling in the center of my hands, saw the throbbing in the veins, I switched to kicks so as not to worry about rupturing blood vessels, or something disgustingly related (which, unfortunately, i've had problems with before); when the heat had cooled down (though even not the swelling) i switched back to hands.
And when I stopped it was not for some found release. I stopped because, simply, sometimes there is nothing else to do. If I continued I'd still be there. My endurance will usually outlast whatever else drives me but I could think of no other response but that. Feel better? Maybe. That wasn't the point.
My knuckles are still swollen, but I don't mind; they're mottled black and purple where the veins cross the bone.
Not once in my life have i acted on my anger in that manner. I use my anger, yes; i have never unleashed it. Always I've used control, let it out in a trickle- to acheive what needs to be done in all coldness or to drain out until i have nothing left. There's always been a part of my that holds very tightly on the reins of primal nature and never lets go. This time I seized of my fury.
I kept some modicum of control because otherwise I wouldn't have stayed downstairs.
The heavy bag wasn't a need but the only response I could find. I wasn't going to pace like a caged dog until I found something else to rip apart.
At some point I stopped and looked at myself. Without the black gi and the hair long to cover the rest of my face it looses a bit of the intimidation factor that I seized hold of for sparring. Overall, small. Some extra weight but only noticeable by culture's standards. What i would see- Muscles still toned. Shoulders broad, arms and chest strong, stomach muscles splitting into definition even *with* the extra weight. What others would see- the large eyes, the small mouth only used in smiling; the face mostly blank from revealed expression except whatever they would want to read into it. Overall, small. No stature for posturing; the only readable expression possible in the blazing eyes; far to easy to misconstrue. My womanhood belies me. It's no wonder people have difficulty figuring me out; there is little to go off of. Just enough to assume a picture that's easily inaccurate. What i see- the hands, deceptively casual but poised, an unnatural red dyed black with sweat and grime, skin falling off and blood pooling. What do they see?
I've kept my speed and can still strike effectively in a flurry. Not quite maximizing striking power the way i used to- i'll have to train that further.- but enough. certainly enough.
At some point Mom came down and told me I should put on gloves. I guess sensei's rubbing off on her; he doesn't let us go barehand- understandable, since he doesn't want us bleeding on the bags. But I hate the feeling of bag gloves, bags ruin your chops, and boxing gloves... well, when i want weight behind my punches, i want it to be my weight, and I'm not interested in padding.
When I felt a familiar tingling in the center of my hands, saw the throbbing in the veins, I switched to kicks so as not to worry about rupturing blood vessels, or something disgustingly related (which, unfortunately, i've had problems with before); when the heat had cooled down (though even not the swelling) i switched back to hands.
And when I stopped it was not for some found release. I stopped because, simply, sometimes there is nothing else to do. If I continued I'd still be there. My endurance will usually outlast whatever else drives me but I could think of no other response but that. Feel better? Maybe. That wasn't the point.
My knuckles are still swollen, but I don't mind; they're mottled black and purple where the veins cross the bone.