Be careful, she bites.

My most inflammatory hot take is that dogs are extremely dangerous, and I don't think nearly enough people take that truth seriously. Before you decide to hate me, though, know that I love dogs. I grew up with a German Shepherd, one of the breeds that often gets a bad rep for their temperament, and he was an angel. But I also know too many people who've instilled too much trust into an unsupervised dog only to meet the worst kinds of tragedy - from day-long stitch jobs and court-ordered euthanization to the death of a two-year-old boy. After having my own hand caught in the jaws of a pit bull puppy excited to play with his toy, I know the primal fear of losing to an animal I underestimated. Even the best-behaved, most highly-trained pets can snap in an instant.

And when they do, our vision clears: we remember that this thing is wild, that it can maim and kill. When we hear the dog snarl, see its teeth bared, will do anything to not be in its path.

I fear I've been the dog, lately.

We know what often triggers that drastic shift in our beloved pets: a change in routine, poor socialization (especially with unfamiliar circumstances), a chronic annoyance that won't balk after clear signals of discomfort. But when we feel highly dysregulated, irritable, overstimulated, ready to snap, do we have any language for why? Do we linger long enough in it to understand where it comes from?

Allow me to contextualize. I know how I get this time of year. As I write this, there are only 19 school days left before a summer break lasting nearly two months. In this time, I like to tell myself that the responsibilities are beginning to wind down - I won't have as much to take home, and the assignments get easier from here. I can start slowing operations, packing up my room, preparing for an extended period of wide-open freedom. I can go to the gym more often. I can wade in the river before the light fades. I can start putting more effort into the other parts of my life that I care much more about. And while most of this does undoubtedly hold true, the promise of it coming soon doesn't make up for the overwhelm of now.

Because right now, too much is happening and I'm struggling to carry it with grace. Every little task, every student and colleague interaction is an added stimulus I don't have the capacity for. My weekends haven't been void enough for me to offload the excess energy, as much as I've deeply enjoyed these peak hangouts and events of my late 20s.

It's gotten to where my vision doesn't always stay focused. I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep through the night. Takeout is much easier to handle than cooking, though I really don't want to spend the money. My husband comes home from work, kisses my face, and I revolt.

I may as well be baring my teeth.

And this is where it becomes a reality check. I don't so much mind the overstimulation leaking onto other areas of my life, but lashing out at the person I love most is the saddening, sobering consequence of a pattern continuing for far too long. Not only are the tasks not handled, but I come home irritable and no fun to be around. It's a lose-lose.

I know I'm not the only one who gets like this, but the guilt surrounding it is horrendous. It's not fair. We deal with everyone else all day, every day: coworkers, students, customers, clients, strangers - we manage our presentation to them, to the outside world, constantly. So when we come home, whoever we come home to is the one person (or few people) where the armor comes off. They get the unfiltered version of us when we're entirely depleted. It's not the "real us." And it's not an excuse, but it's not random either. We tend to spend our patience on people we feel we have to, and unconsciously trust that the people who love us will absorb the rest. Mostly, they will be kind at first. They'll offer reassurance that it's fine, and while that's comforting to hear in the moment, it can also accidentally make it easier to keep doing.

We might apologize, too (I hope we all do). But I know myself, and I know that simply saying sorry doesn't guarantee I won't repeat the pattern the next time I've burnt out or overstimulated. I know this to be true, because we've discussed this many times over. I still reject the affection, cop an attitude, and pick fights.

The kind of person I want to be on a Wednesday evening is far from how I'm realistically showing up to them. I want to be relaxed on the couch with a nourishing meal and my latest book, or a good show. I want to embrace my husband and sit together for hours, not needing to lament about the work day, but digging into a deeper conversation about the state of the world, something we noticed in people watching, a question for the other person that carries long into the night. The day is done, now it's time to enjoy one another's company. And it's not that this is never the reality, but I more often find myself needing to grade, to clean up a room, to cook dinner or meal-prep for the coming days. So while I'm in the midst of a prep-frenzy, he gets the signal that I can't be bothered. He settles to the computer to do research or watch a show, we exchange few words, and then we go to bed.

Depletion - whether it comes from an already busy life or gets compounded with self-imposed tasks and deadlines - makes even affection feel like a demand. When there is so little left to give, there is so little padding or softness for any form of the lifestyle I crave, the version of me that wants to dance around the living room, light candles for no reason, and be present enough for gratitude...let alone for intimacy and closeness to another. When depletion morphs into revulsion, it's time to acknowledge it. I mean, the best time would have been before we found ourselves completely flattened by its weight, but the second best time is now.

It's a cycle, and I know that. I know that writing about it won't solve it, won't solidify that it'll never happen again. But I hope that in having a conversation here, it sparks enough reflection for a lingering pause in the aftermath of a particularly rough lashing. I want to see the damage, I want to feel the weight of it, so I can remember how uncomfortable it feels when I start to come back here. I want to invite my softness back. I want to kiss my husband back, and remember not to bite.