The Private Journal of Mr. C.

Shrinks and therapy are a waste of money. I don't mean to imply that therapy is not beneficial. Talking about your problems certainly helps. But as studies indicate, talking to a mental health professional is about as beneficial as talking to a friend or your local bartender except that it costs way more.

I remember watching a story of survivors of 9/11 and how they coped by drawing pictures or writing in journals about the trauma they had undergone. The practice helped them to overcome their distress much more quickly and easily than those who did not do the same thing.

I learned a long time ago the value of writing it all out. The problem is that this blog seems to be my number one outlet for venting my emotions and frustrations. I'm not sure this is a good thing anymore. I live a very open life, but I don't put it all here out of respect for certain people including myself. Consequently, I am inhibited and not able to really spill my guts.

I am keeping a journal now. No one will get to read it unless I am dead or the shit gets stolen or taken as evidence for court. I need something that will give me a place to dump all this baggage I carry around. A $1 notebook from Wal-Mart is the best thing for this.

The blog may become less personal as a result of this project. I realize a lot of people enjoy reading about the trainwreck that is my life, and I'll be sure to post the highlights as the shit hits. But the day-to-day bitchiness on my part is being put somewhere else. I doubt it will be missed.

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