Nobody’s completely pain-free. Something pinches you somewhere. You may have grown used to the discomfort, but it’s there. Why not get rid of it?
No matter where the injury is, we only heal from the inside out. All medicine, therapists, and braces do is persuade your body to heal itself. The process begins with convincing you–the you that resides in your mind. If you’re unsure that what you’re doing or taking is going to make you feel better, it will probably fail.
So, let’s say you’ve had a shitty day at work. You got fired. You were replaced by a little snit who will do your job for less. You were escorted away, like a criminal. You’re embarrassed, knowing your coworkers are gossiping like teenage girls at a slumber party. How do you heal?
Well, for one, if there are no remaining financial obligations due to you, don’t hesitate to burn a few bridges. Face it, those bridges are paper thin anyway. Your ex-bosses and former teammates are concerned about one thing: how likely it is that they’re next in line at the slaughterhouse. To speed your healing, make sure you let each of these cowardly swine know how you really feel. If you must do so electronically, add a disclaimer to cover your ass. Here’s an example:
Dear Former Coworkers,
First, I want you to know that I am quite drunk as I write this, which is part of my healing process from being distraught about the thick layer of shit laid upon me. Hence, what I am about to say isn’t true. I’m just venting.
I wish you unbearable pain and regret for how you’ve treated me. I hope you get a paper cut on your pee hole, and an unsightly per-cancerous mole between your left eye and nose, which, I also hope, grows hair. If you are struck by a large truck on the way home tonight, I will giggle uncontrollably as I read your obituary. In fact, I’ll have your obituary laminated into a placemat, and I’ll eat breakfast off it daily.
Hugs and kisses (from your lips to my ass, preferably),
(insert your name, misspelled for legal reasons)
Now, exhale and say, “ahhh.”
You’ve returned home midday to find your spouse being plowed like a field of soybeans by the neighbor’s son. Your wife, while embarrassed, doesn’t hesitate to tell you this is your fault and she wants a divorce. She insists you leave immediately (from the home you pay for) and go live with your uncle.
Don’t break things, or argue. Start the healing process by taking the checkbook, universal remote, and 18-year Macallan. Run over her lover’s skateboard or bike as you back out of the driveway, head to your bank, withdraw every cent, and close the account. It’s OK to hit on the teller; you’re single now. Drive to the closest dive bar, uncork the Macallan, tilt back four to six ounces, then enter the bar. Hand the bartender your keys, phone, and a twenty. Instruct her to continue bringing drinks, tater tots, and lonely women (size is of no concern) until there’s blood in your urine, then have the bartender hail a taxi to drag your carcass to a hotel.
You’ll wake up with a nasty hangover and an ugly woman (or man … whoopsie), but you’ll have already begun healing the nasty relationship wound your ex created.