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I don’t know if this is normal, but I have always had this weird discomfort when it comes to my relationships with other men. The best way to explain it is with a comment the late Kevin Samuels made as a guest on the Joe Budden Podcast. While discussing the differences between women and men, he claimed that “whenever men are abundant in a space, there is also guaranteed to be a ‘low level of tension’ in the air.” Kevin described this as the threat of violence created by masculine energy in the room. This wasn’t at all foreign to me, because for as long as I can remember, being in a room with men always meant there was a chance for violence. Unfortunately for me, navigating the world as a young boy in East New York, Brooklyn, that “threat” of violence was usually a promise.

Simple games of tag could lead to fist fights. Holding someone's gaze too long could put your life on the line, and if you gave off any inclination that you were afraid of that action or couldn’t defend yourself, the enemies would swarm. This isn’t conjecture; growing up, my experience with other men and boys often led to battle.

Long ago, when I was still too young to understand how the world worked, my uncle made it his job to rough me up. When the women in the house tried to stop him, he would shout them down, because he was “preparing me for the world.” I didn’t understand how punching me in the stomach, antagonizing and threatening me would make me stronger, but after several instances like this, I snapped and came after him with everything I had. With gritted teeth, hot tears in my eyes, a butter knife in hand, and a chest so tight I thought it might cave in, I tried to kill him. He put me down quickly, but returned that rage with a smile so bright it cooled the heat that threatened to engulf me. After that, I understood what it meant to be a man.

The anger I felt the day I tried to kill my uncle scared me. But It also gave me information about myself I didn’t know was there, because in that moment, I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to cause so much pain he would shout in agony, I wanted his blood to drip on the floor and extract every drop of it until the fire in me subsided, and I fucking loved the idea that I could have so much power over another person. The day of that incident was my introduction to that side of me. My uncle called it the “demon,” and he was right. I never wanted to see him again.

Much of my adolescence is colored by the abuse I experienced, so that the demon would make other appearances, thankfully none as terrifying as the first. I hated it, but I always saw my uncle’s approving smile. I loved and hated it. Unfortunately for me, as much as I ran away from the idea of violence being the standard amongst men and boys, life would reinforce his early teachings. When I was 8, I went to visit my stepsister's grandmother. I didn’t know anyone in the area, so I spent my time playing with rocks alone, that is, until I ran into a group of boys climbing trees.

Mustering up all my courage, I asked if I could join them. They said yes, and we decided to run to the park. Seeing that I was the fastest in the group, I shouted, “Last one to the fence is a rotten egg.” I didn’t think anything of it, but the challenge offended one of the boys. He confronted me, and when I tried to explain it was a gam, he punched me in the face. I tried to walk away, but he kept going at me. There was a group of men sitting on a nearby bench, one of them threatened to “fuck me up himself if I ran” With no other choice but to defend myself, I tried to fight back, the other boys joined in and they jumped me. Fighting off the blows of other children, I felt the demon creeping up again. Unfortunately, my vision was clouded by tiny fists, and my sense of hearing was overwhelmed by the shouts of little boys, and the men not too far away laughing as my peers converged on me.

Stories like this and many others are the root of my discomfort around other men, because somewhere deep, there is a fear that violence is promised. I hate violence, I hate hurting others, I hate the person I become when I’m activated, but more than anything, I’m afraid of what I’m capable of if I let go. I have only let loose one other time, after getting teased for hours by a kid in my class, I blew up and attacked another student. I opened a gash on his face and kept going until several students and a teacher held me back. I’ll never forget the look of horror on everyone’s faces. It’s for these reasons that I struggle to make friends with men.

As an adult, I’m proud to say there are men I can call my brothers. Around them, I feel safe, seen, and understood. We don’t always agree. However, I never fear what may come of it. But in the back of my mind exists the little boy afraid of what might happen if I say or do the wrong thing, or what might happen if I let the “demon” take over. Before them, I found another kindred spirit, let’s call him JaVonne. Like me, JaVonne loved music, basketball, and writing. We met during my freshman year of college and became fast friends. We connected with another group of freshmen, and that became our crew.

Javonte ended up hitting it off with Erica, one of the girls from our friend group. Before anyone knew what was happening, they were the it couple. The closer the two of them got, the less they hung out with the rest of us. It’s like everyone disappeared once they discovered they were each other's “person,” Or at least that’s what I thought. A few months into their relationship, things started to look concerning. After giving off the perception they were the perfect couple, cracks began to show in their beautiful facade. It started with small arguments in the cafeteria, and after each fight, Erica would make her way back to our group. We all missed her, so we didn’t think anything of it. Then one day, JaVonne took things too far after a nasty argument, slamming Erica against the wall and pinning her hands down to make her look at him. The cafeteria was crowded, but I was the only one from our friend group there.

I ran over to intervene, grabbing JaVonne’s shoulder to pull him away, but he turned on me. The look in his eyes terrified me. I saw the demon I had been running from my whole life. Hesitating for only a second, I tried to shake him out of his stupor, telling him what he was doing could get him arrested or even expelled. The only things shaking more than my voice were my hands. Erica intervened, telling me she was ok and that I should mind my business. I didn’t listen, pulling JaVonne away from her. He and I left her to head home; he spent the trip blaming the exchange on her.

Two weeks later, Cherise, the de facto leader of our friend group, invited me to her house. Erica and the entire crew were there, minus JaVonne. It was then that Cherise explained to me what was going on. According to her, JaVonne had been abusing Erica since the beginning of the relationship. Everyone knew about it except for me. They hesitated to tell me because of how close JaVonne and I used to be, but to help Erica get away from him, they needed my help. I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing and lashed out.

I thought they were picking on JaVonne. I demanded to know what Erica had done to provoke him, but deep in my heart, I knew the truth. The meeting ended without a conclusion, and I had to leave. Erica walked out with me and we talked while waiting for the bus. I had never seen my friend look so tired, but more than that, she looked small and alone. I recognized that look in her eyes, I had it many times while growing up. The feeling of complete defeat and resignation usually accompanied it.

I sided with Erica, and my friendship with JaVonne ended that day. I don’t have any regrets about my choice, but I have reflections. I struggled all of my life to make healthy connections with men, and when I finally found one, he was accused of unspeakable acts. When Erica shared what she was going through, I struggled to believe her, not because of JaVonne, but because of what it might say about me. JaVonne and I were as thick as thieves. I understood him, and we were a lot alike in many ways. If he was capable of this kind of behavior, didn’t that also make me culpable?

This question hangs in the back of the minds of countless men. In a world where the rules of masculinity and what is or isn’t allowed are changing, where do we stand? The uncertainty creates a sense of fear that causes many of us to avoid the question altogether. Because, “If Harvey Weinstein is guilty of his crimes, Tory shot Meg Thee Stallion, and Diddy, as is a monster like everyone says he is, will there be grace for our sins? Have we already crossed the threshold into the irredeemable? Men everywhere, myself included have watched many of our heroes be exposed as rapist, deadbeat dads, assulters and abusers, we spent our entire lives trying to be like them. Does that mean we’re monsters too? Has the demon inside of me won?

We are living in a doom loop of harm. Hurt people hurt people, and instead of doing something different, the cycle continues. We don’t have to make the same mistakes as the men I mentioned above; there is another option, and even if you have caused harm, it does not have to define you. But the only way we can break the pattern and not fall into the inevitable role of a demon or monster is to admit that what’s happening is wrong. No matter who or what we will lose in the process, because the truth is, whatever you have been holding on to has not, and will not serve you. It will keep us all in this doom loop of pain and suffering. It’s time to stop protecting abusers, making excuses for rapist, and apologizing for cruelty. We get to break the cycle today.