I rub my temples. The pounding in my head isn’t backing down, the voices, not silenced, in spite of a grueling afternoon workout, pain killers and music being pumped into my ears. Wait, no pain killers. I count the hours until bedtime, trying to see just how long I would need to put up with the dull throb. I try to focus on the work at hand again and nothing comes to mind. I am tapped out, distracted by everything else going on.

I put my head in my hands and make a sound of disgust. Self-disgust, for being so fed up with it I couldn’t finish it. I want to stop, so badly, but I force myself to sit there, staring at the blank screen. My temper boiling under the surface. Work ethic, the heavyweight, oppresses the other desires into a pulp and it pisses me off. This all plays out under my skin, in my restless hands that did no work, but only pinch the bridge of my nose.

I am angry at myself. Arguing in my head about getting this done now or later, all the things I tell myself to get through my stubborn head when I want to quit. Divided. A potent sense of self-loathing wars with the need to be free from this fucking laptop. I think about jogging, the night air, the cool feeling of it rushing over my face, but dismiss it. I was already in bad enough shape.

Violence. I realize just how badly I need to have an outlet. I wish I understood my anger. I wish I knew just how the chemicals come together - maybe to rewire it into something healthier. I already squeeze myself tight enough to burst. I don’t think there is another drop to extract.

I ’see’ her face and I want to hurt her. Not hurt her in a sexual manner, not beat her with canes and whips, but pure physical harm. My hands. My muscles. I play the image through my head, just to see how far gone I am… watch it play out, watch the surprise erupt across her face. Watch the way her head snaps back when I hit her.

I watch the video in my head, see the blood on her lip - the way it smears across her chin. And no matter how many times I replay the image in my head, no matter how many times I greet her with the violence, I never get past it. I never do more.

As soon as her accusing eyes turn on me, I stop. I feel the acid burn my throat, feel the violence wanting more, but nothing else comes.

I remind myself that there has to be some balance. I made myself cut my jogging when I kept hurting my legs. I think this push I have to work is poisoning me in other ways.

I used to laugh. I used to not worry about everyone else’s motives. To say I don’t trust anyone would be wrong, but there isn’t a woman on the list - not even my mother.  How do you open yourself up to someone who, in all reality, has free will?

I close the laptop.  I stop working.  The beast quiets.

I had just backed myself into a corner.  Came out of it smarter and a little more peaceful - envious of those who know how to find it always.