Back in the early 2000s (by which I mean 2000-2001) I worked as a nurse in the emergency department at our local university hospital. Among the injuries we saw on a semi-regular basis were adult men (and it was always men) presenting with a fracture of either the fourth or fifth metacarpal bones (sometimes both) and no other injuries.
This particular injury is known as a boxer’s fracture and results from, as one might guess, punching a hard, unyielding surface such as a human skull or, much more frequently, a wall.
In my mind it did not get much dumber than punching a wall. You start off with a bunch of problems, something makes you lose your temper and you punch a wall. Now you have all the same problems you had originally plus a fractured hand (and it was almost always their dominant hand because that’s the one people tend to throw the first punch with) and a bill for an ER visit on top of it.
With that all said, this is how I spent my Thursday evening:
I knew what I’d done as soon as I did it, although I did spend a couple of hours trying to pretend I didn’t.
So, as the man said, how did it come to this? The short(-ish) answer is that I am having an increasingly difficult time arguing that the PTSD-like symptoms that I’ve been having aren’t actually real1. The longer answer is that I really can’t point to anything specific. I’d been feeling off since the Tuesday of that week; more irritable, harder time concentrating, more than usual sleep disturbances, etc. and by Thursday afternoon I was moderately dysfunctional. I really can’t remember what I was doing right before. I was upstairs actively falling to pieces and went downstairs to try and get somewhere quiet. I went back to my office and then I was back out in the hall with a fractured hand.
I have to revise my opinion of at least some of the boxer’s fractures that came through the ER. This is, I think, a perfect example of that “toxic masculinity” you hear about these days. Men in America, certainly men around my age, were still acculturated into fairly traditional gender roles, especially when it comes to emotional intelligence. There comes a point where the only way one knows how to express and attempt to manage the intensity of emotions that one is experiencing is through violent rage because men have traditionally been actively discouraged from experiencing negative emotions in any other way.
I hope that others can maybe avoid these self-destructive patterns and learn a lesson from my experience.
And that lesson is: punch something softer than a wall.
1 This is not to say that my brain isn’t trying to tell me this is just an example of how serious I am about sloth and malingering; that I would go so far as to injure myself just so I could better fake mental health issues shows real dedication