I was just 16 when I saw blood for the first time. Real blood—dripping from the veins, crying out for God. My dad yelled at me to get napkins and another can of beer. He tugged at the wound as if he were pulling on the reins of a horse and passed out sometime around 3 AM.

The house glowed with white light. I remember staring at his poorly wrapped finger and feeling so angry. When blood leaves your body, it's sort of gone forever—unless you beg it to come back.

When I turned 17, I was arrested for trying to break into a church. I thought I heard an angel calling my name. There was blood everywhere: on my shirt, on the steps, on the broken window. The cop said to me, and I remember it clearly: "How stupid can you be?" And I thought, I could kill him if I wanted to. His gun was just a pretty sight. The most dangerous weapon of them all is anger—especially when it’s hot and inexplicable.

For the next three years of my life, it felt like I was walking around with a sign that read: "Sorry for my anger. I am still learning how to deal with it." Nobody spoke to me. I contemplated jumping from various structures but never did. I decided that falling into water was too peaceful, and falling headfirst to the ground was too gruesome. Everything was always too something and never nothing. There was never just nothing, and I decided that was what was wrong with the world.

Quite frankly, I felt trapped in my own anger and isolation. The only way out seemed to be through a broken door or a locked window, both of which would require either a gallon of blood or my life. So I just stayed trapped because what else could I do? Still, on late nights when the house is mysteriously glowing white, I consider leaving.