Boston, The TSA, Rage and The Monster

I'm on my way to Boston ComicCon to be a part of a pretty huge announcement for a thing -- and I must pat myself on the back for this -- I have somehow managed to keep secret all this time. Trust me, tomorrow and going forward, you'll know more than you ever wanted to know. But for now, just keep an eye on my Twitter and Facebook pages. Around 6:00PM, all will be revealed.

The last time I was in Boston was for ROFLCon in 2008. While I was there, I ended up involved in what I will term an "altercation" because that's what the TSA called it when they put me on a watchlist for 2 years (Want to read about it? Start with the blog post for the background, and then read the story).  And walking through Logan to find a restaurant that serves something I can eat without completely obliterating any sibilance of trying to stay on the path of good health, I saw the gate where it all went down.

And it brought it all back. Not that it wasn't with me when I got on the plane -- it's hard not to let thoughts like "Remember what happened last time you were at that place?" when you are headed to a place. But being there, seeing it... It put me back in that place. And all I can really remember is being full of rage.

It's not the only time I've been full of rage, and it's nowhere near the most full of rage I've been. But it was there, and I was in it. Rage is the only thing that unifies my perpetually-split mind into a singular goal. It makes me see white. It conquers the armies I have in place to keep myself in check.

It makes me physically ill. It makes me want to hurt another person. I don't like hurting people -- I know my persona and the stuff I write sometimes makes it seem like I do. But I don't. I like punishing the unjust and putting people in their place when I feel they deserve it... But to hurt? It's an alien thing to me. It goes against the grain of the wood from which I am cut.

And I wanted to hurt that man. I wanted to show him what happens when you violate another person's space. I wanted to show him what being a bully earns him. And it's a strange thing for me, because it seems that that's part of my chosen mission -- to find those that willfully impose themselves on others and be the man who teaches them why they shouldn't do that.

And that sounds so logical and direct and planned. And it somewhat is. But it requires me to do two things I don't like: inflict myself on people and face the fact that I am built in a very unnatural way.

I am a monster. Pure and simple.

When I am out of control, I don't just lash out. I destroy. I seek the weak points and exploit them. I crush.

I've only experienced total blind rage twice in my life, and I actively fight to keep rage out. Anger is such a dangerous drug. It controls and destroys, and it does so by aligning my perception to exploit, with laser focus, everything I perceive as weakness. And when it even barely creeps into me, I wage war within myself to keep it out.

And then, an entitled prick goes and puts his hands on a small girl standing up for herself. Or, a bully from the past inflicts himself on someone in the present, exerting dominance. Or, evil soulless people appear from the past and inflict themselves on the present.

And I have to keep control, lest I destroy. And I am, as much as I can possibly be, a creator. I want to create beauty. I want to share delicate and intricate and complex concepts with an elegance that makes them simple. I want to draw beautiful things, beautifully. I want to craft my words and express myself so that the picture in your mind is clear and clean and taps into a part of you that feels and is governed by experience.

Destruction is the last thing I ever want to bring into the world. I don't want to be a monster. But I am. And when I see it, have to fight it.

And here I sit in this airport in this city, waiting for my ride to take me to a place where I get to be a part of one of the greatest creations I've ever been blessed enough to be involved with. It's a thing of beauty and splendor and freedom and sharing. And while I sit here and stare at half my breakfast that I can't eat due to the swimming and swirling in my stomach and the shaking of my hands, I ponder an email and my subsequent response from someone in my past who has been a topic of recent posts, who laid waste to several lives around me.

I have to face my monster before I even get out the door. Is it a test? Am I being asked by the universe, "Are you truly ready to be a part of something beautiful?"

I am.