I wish I were at the beach. Even if it were Old Orchard Beach in Maine, I'd rather be at the beach than here. I could put on a sweater over my t-shirt and shorts, and walk along the water's edge freezing off my kneecaps and loving every second of the sensation. The air would be salt-laden, a wonderful lung-cleansing tonic for the soul, and the wind would tousle the seagrass. I would watch the kestrels darting up and over the dunes and listen as they called to each other. The sound of waves alternately caressing then crashing against the rock outcropping up ahead would bring my blood pressure down as if by magic, and I would be free from the constant worries of my life. Free.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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