Punching someone in the face and getting punched in the face are two sides of the same coin.

Let me lead with this caveat: violence sucks. It really does. Remember that piece of advice we were given as kids? It was always either "fighting is bad, it doesn't solve anything" or "there's no need to fight, just walk away." The adults would say this all the time, pretty much every time an argument broke out, in a last-ditch effort to de-escalate the situation. And they were right –– or at least partially right. It is better to talk problems out rationally than charge in headfirst, ready to throw punches...usually.

Let's be real: not every argument is going to be resolved amicably. And sometimes the problem will hit too close to home to simply "walk away" or do nothing. So despite all that pacifist advice, I get it. Sometimes you do what you got to do. So for those of you curious, let me give you a first-hand account of what its like to be in a fist fight. I'm no professional fighter by any means, and I don't pretend to be. This is just me, being honest, talking to you.

The fight happened when I was younger, a good deal younger than I am today writing this. Being that it happened so long ago, I'll be honest: I don't remember the circumstances all too clearly. Not only the reason for the fight but heck, I don't even remember the other guy's name. But I do remember his face. That much I recall, the one thing about my adversary that's burned into my memory.

We met in the schoolyard for the fight (I know, cliché). It wasn't anything big; we didn't have groups of friends with us, to back us up if things got messy. There was no reason to involve anyone else. I had a feeling neither of us wanted to anyway. Something lay unresolved between us, and we decided this was the proper way to settle it, just the two of us.

I remember walking through the chain link gate and seeing him standing there, waiting for me. That's when the feelings of anxiousness hit. Not enough to make me turn tail and run, but they were there for sure. With each passing second, I grew more and more unsure of whether or not I wanted to go through with this. The sensation was short lived though, because the next thing I knew was his fist slamming into my stomach.

I doubled over, clutching my abdomen. The pain was intense, much more so than I had expected. It felt as though someone had taken a baseball bat and swung it at my ribs as hard as they could. It was almost hard to breathe through the pain, it was so bad. The first thought that ran through my mind was the same thought that anyone who's ever been in a fight knows all too well: this was a terrible idea. I shouldn't have done this.

Somewhere in the background, I heard him jeering at me. Taunting me. Saying terrible things about me. It sucked, but I took it. Honestly, It was hard to focus on anything other than the pain in my gut.

Maybe I should have been the bigger person and not come in the first place. Maybe I let my pride get in my head.

But then he did something that pushed me too far: he spat at me. An unbelievable display of disrespect. I snapped.

It's hard to describe the result of mixing adrenaline, anger, and anxiety. What I can tell you about it, however, is that the result is both volatile and dangerous. Much of his saliva had missed me, but I felt some of it hit my skin and face. That was enough to set me off. Once my brain had registered what he had done, every fiber of my being came alive with a single purpose: to tear him to shreds. The crippling pain that I was experiencing just moments before seemed to evaporate to nothing. All I could focus on was getting to him.

Disgusted and furious, I swung back. Hard. My fist struck him on the side of his jaw, and he stumbled backward a few steps, nearly falling over. I didn't let up and swung another hard punch, this time landing a solid blow to his stomach. It was his turn to double over and stagger away from me.

I'll never forget his expression. He glared at me, hate etched on his face. But I looked him right in the eye and glared back. I wasn't about to back down. After what felt like an hour, he picked himself up and began to walk towards me. My hands were at my sides but I hadn't let my guard down. I was ready, prepared to exchange another round of blows should he aggress on me--but he never did. Without a word, he walked right past me to where his backpack lay on the ground, picked it up, and left. Just like that.

Was it grudging respect he was showing me? Or had he decided I was not worth his time? Perhaps he had also come to the realization that no matter who "won" the fight, none of it really mattered. Who knows. I picked up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed home. We never spoke again of what happened that day.

That was many years ago. I've been in a number of fights since that day, but the lesson learned from each one never changes.

No one wins a fight. Not really.