As a little chilrun’, Where the Wild Things Are was one of my favorite books. I would visualize myself as the the little boy in the book (Max) taking out my aggressions with a hammer on a wall. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only youngster suffering from psychological disturbances manifesting in property damage (even if Max was only a cartoon).
I targeted the family pet like Max did (but mine was a cat named Trickle, instead of a dog). I could make him defecate on demand with my terror tactics. One time he dropped six steamy little black balls after being cornered and traumatized with no hope for escape. I am certain that Trickle will be tormenting me in the afterlife.
Max’s wolf-suit was an emotional facade that he donned to deal with his short-term troubles. The whole time he was wearing it, he was frontin’ on his ma, the dog, and the beasts that he tamed. When he came home for supper, and pulled his wolf hoodie off, he transformed back into a little boy. The wolf suit was Max’s imagined alter-ego that he used to cope with his emotions. As grown-ups, we also employ a variety of situationally-determinant personality masks to get us through the day.