The pathology of Anger

Once in a blue moon, I have to set out to dissect exactly why I'm angry and how to deal with it. Anger, for me, is a source from which I draw a lot of my energy-- whether it's creative, physical, or raw emotion. When I'm about to make a strong point-- something I believe in so fervently that no other emotion can employ more tension-- anger is the well that I draw from. If I'm about break something-- which can be surprisingly therapeutic-- I piss myself off first.

Tonight, I'm angry. Angry beyond the ability to channel it into something useful. It's like a red, boiling gel coursing through my veins. My palms could fry and egg, and my face grows flushed. My eyes sink, and it's no longer optic nerves but my mind that plies truth from lie. Things no longer represent hard or soft-- only breakable with my fist versus breakable with a tool of some sort. A dull numbness creates a crown on my head, as if I'm wearing an invisible helmet. I try as hard as I can not to clench my teeth, because it creates a pressure so intense that my temples throb. When I open my hands, palms facing up, I can feel blood throbbing the blue vein in the pit of my elbow. It's like an unearthed root-- typically stoic, but suddenly loose and alive.

I tried my best to be a good friend. I went further than I normally would to make sure nobody could detect my inclement, burgeoning rage. But now that I'm home alone, only my thoughts to accompany me, thoughts which dispel any notion of a benevolent fate...

After running through what was said over and over again, I tried to pick out the indication that I should have expected this. I tried to blame myself first, for not picking up on a hopefully obvious sign that my expectations should be promptly killed on sight. But nothing seemed out of order. Nothing seemed miscued or troubling.

Nothing is exactly what I received after -- if even for a brief moment -- deciding it was okay to generate expectations, to bungee with hope as my rope. To take for granted after such a good night, that a second would follow. Karma, it appears, delegates my punishments in 24-hour cycles. Well, I'm really sick of it.

Im sick of knowing in my gut that the night is going to be full of useless bullshit, and convincing myself that my gut is wrong. From this point forward, if I have a bad feeling, I'm going to follow it. If I have a good feeling and it turns out to be wrong... then I'm going to punch a baby in the face.

I'm starting to feel better already.