Says the Baboon to the Leopard

It is incredible how potent a bout of rage can be.  When it first appears, it comes bubbling up from the deep passageways of your gut.  Bile-like emotion surges up your throat and floods your head.  Then there is a tint to everything you see, and red crowds your vision.  You can't hide from that red curtain though.  It invades your closed eyelids, your brain, you tongue.  Images of violence preoccupy your minds-eye, terrible deeds of manifested rage pouring from your head.

For me, I can kind of "red-out".  I usually come to clenching a knife, fists pressed against my forehead, teeth mashed together.  Doctor says I should see a therapist, but I can't afford it.  I told him I'd just keep laying my problems on my friends and breathe deeply when I fall into murderous rage.  He said good luck with that.  Sometimes I hit things: pillows, walls, cats.  Sometimes I break things: glass, phones, knuckles.

Punching is my favorite.  Your arms have so much control and power.  Punching pillows and walls is one thing, but nothing beats a good fist fight.  I don't even need to win to enjoy it; I love getting the shit kicked out of me.  It hurts when someone lands an appendix burster or connects solidly with your face, sure, but that pain is a feeling that overwhelms rage for just a moment.  Soon that pain turns into smarting, and then fades to a hazy phantom tingle when you try to recall it.  Hitting back feels good too, especially when you can mount them and start wailing away on them.  Fists flying, knuckles connecting with bones and teeth, coming up cracked and torn.  I like that a lot.  It helps with the anger.