A punch to the face, a kick to the thighs, an elbow to the chest, or the feeling of my arms almost breaking. I craved it.
I’m a fighter. I’ve been fighting ever since middle school in school yard scraps or hallway tussles. If there’s a fight, I want to be in it or near it. Because I loved fighting, I was expelled a few times and transferred school many times.
When I was 18, I joined a gym and eventually I started fighting in rings. I earned money through fights and I lived for the thrill of it. I felt no fear so I was always giving 100% of me in fights.
That is until I ended up in a hospital with a collapsed lung. Apparently one of my ribs was broken and had penetrated my lungs. I was in the hospital for months with a chest tube, my fist itching to taste flesh again. But I was told that I couldn’t fight again. I was too unstable, too dangerous. The guy that I fought, the one that broke my ribs, was in the same emergency room that I am and is currently fighting for his life. Apparently I didn’t stop punching him even after he lost consciousness.