Restraining Order

Not such the prolific blogger these days. I feel sensored, or restrained, unable to speak from my gut and that is a writers worst nightmare.

I have not been in a good place as of late. While I always speak my mind, I have a fear of doing so publicly because the consequences for my actions would likely be great. Deserved, yes, but at the same time the ridiculousness of the idiocy I am dealing with deserves to be outed. Every. Single. Day.

I have taken to relaxation therapy, because I can't walk around in a Xanax fog the rest of my life (although if socially acceptable, you can guarantee I'd be driving that bandwagon). This type of therapy essentially teaches you to meditate. I was a non-believer. How does one shut off their mind? Unbelievably, I did it by finding a happy place. Seriously, I couldn't feel my hands.

What is (slightly) disturbing, is to get to this happy place I was told to visualize and follow a path. Naturally, my path had have a freakin' fork in it, so I had to choose to go one way or another. I guess I chose correctly, because I found my happy place. It conveniently resembles a 1940's bungalow in the Springlake section of Atlanta.

Morale of the story is, I had to take to other means to deal with the current stress of my life outside of berating the people and things that make me wish I too was born void of common sense, feeling, a brain, etc. depending on the aspect of my life making me ill. Instead, I am limiting my reaction, and trying like hell to not let it bother me.

Tip of the day: "No." is a complete sentence.


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