Someone recently told me that I have an impulsive streak. ("Just an observation, not a criticism.") My initial reaction was to vehemently deny that statement despite the fact that I had just confessed to walking into Total Wine and buying $200 worth of wine just because it seemed like a good idea at 11:00 on a Thursday morning. Me? Impulsive? Don't answer that, especially if you know the truth. I shared this with my therapist yesterday and his eyes lit up when I said, "I think I have a restless soul." The fact that his eyes lit up is significant since we spend most of my sessions arguing with each other about ideas like whether or not a book he recommended is filled with psychobabble bullsh*t or why I should do a bit more thinking with my heart instead of my head. For once, he agreed with me and quickly pointed out that this is not necessarily a bad trait. In fact, it's what stirs my needs to explore and to write. It's also the reason why I don't, by...

I'm having a hard time lately rising above the rage that seems to be seething just below the surface of my skin. Even right now, I can feel it burning, ready to escape as soon I unleash it. Such a lovely picture, right? I want to rage against the night right now. I want to scream and punch holes in walls and kick the nearest living being. I want to push and rip and bite chunks out of anything that seems too whole or perfect. I. Want. To. Lose. It. In the middle of this primitive desire is my knowledge that I'm really just feeling overwhelmed and don't know how to let something slide. I worked for two days this week with a low grade fever. I'm not sleeping through my coughing spells. My floors are layered with dirt. I have a five inch stack of papers to grade and way too much writing work to do. Now I have to go to a training tomorrow that I took last summer. Each weekend for the month of March is already booked with weekend guests, parties, and even the GRE. My head is ...