The turquoise green craft knife wobbled back and forth from the residual force that had sent it flying through the air and driving it deep into my white wooden door. As my vision cleared and I became aware of my surroundings again I struggled to remember how it had gone from my desk to my door. My arm was still extended, muscles tensed, hand open and fingers stretched out towards the displaced craft knife. Had I thrown the knife? But why? My brow furrowed as I slowly lowered my arm and swivelled my office chair to the right, adjusting my body back behind my desk. I looked down, still puzzled, searching for evidence of what I had missed. There was a lot to take in.

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My desk resembled the end of a titanic battle with bits and pieces of model soldiers, vehicles and star ships strewn everywhere. Some soldiers stood completed, upright and at attention in all their crimson glory while others lay helpless, missing limbs or the colours of their battalion. These were the Space Marines of the Blood Eagle battle chapter and they had been a great escape for a young boy in need of a hobby to distract him from the emotional turmoil of puberty.

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I had begun building and playing Warhammer 40K along with some of my friends from school. We all really enjoyed games in general and this was one of the biggest and most complicated strategy board games out there. After begging my parents for an appropriate amount of time, they bought me the expensive plastic models, paint and tools. And so, began a weekend tradition where I would sit, hunched over my desk for hours at a time cutting, gluing and painting my great army. It was delicate work at times with pieces that were smaller than smarties and more fragile than eggshells, but it was worth it to see my crimson Blood Eagle battalion in formation awaiting my command.

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I found myself in the middle of one of these delicate working sessions late this Saturday afternoon and as I revisited my progress on the land speeder, the vehicle I was building for my recon squad, and I began remembering what had happened.

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My hands worked furiously trying to get the pieces of the left wing of the land cruiser to line up before the glue began to set. I had begun excited but had slowly and surely become more and more frustrated as I repeatedly made mistakes. I began to feel the anger start to build up in my chest as my fingers slipped yet again which meant I had to grab a cloth, clean off the stray glue and set to work trying to get the placement correct for the umpteenth time. “Slowly,” I kept saying to myself, “breathe.” But the peace and serenity that this hands-on hobby was supposed to afford a teenager already struggling with pent-up emotions was quickly slipping away.

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Suddenly I am aware of a presence in my room, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as the unwanted visitor whines, “What you doooooing?” I slowly raise my head and being sure to seem as menacing as possible, look my 10-year-old sister straight in the eyes and say, “None of your business.” I enunciate each syllable with force, “go away.” This spurred her on as she began pecking away at me with questions and statements that seemed to be designed specifically to inflict maximum irritation.

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I felt the dam wall begin to crack and before I knew it my hand was reaching for the craft knife. I hurled the sharp blade at her standing in my doorway. There was a shriek of fear and a loud bang as the door closed behind her and there right where her head had been moments ago, embedded two centimetres into the door, was my turquoise craft knife.

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I looked down at my hands. Had I really done that, had I been one split second away from possibly injuring my sister for life? The thought began small but soon multiplied into a hundred other questions. What had I done? How would I explain it to my parents? Where did that explosive anger come from? If I am capable of this now, where does it end?

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I shook my head trying to bully the thoughts into submission. My mind still swirling with the consequences of my actions, I got up from my chair and walked slowly towards the door. As my arm reached up and my fingers curled tentatively around the blade’s handle all the thoughts gathered into one resounding sentence. Something is wrong with you.