I find no blame in fellow bis (bipolars) smoking pot to relieve some of their pain. Reality is way too real for me sometimes. I have to check out in some way. I suffer constant stress and knotted shoulders. I smoke to relax my muscles, and lower my anxiety levels. I say positive affirmations to myself: I'm happy, I'm healthy, I'm wealthy. Might as go for the income while I'm saying what I want. Put it out to the Universe, what I'm needing in my life right now.
I have this creative bent, but can't get it out. Or know how to get started. I've been teaching myself stuff on photobucket. I like doing bright graphics. When I get frustrated, I put on my music and blast it right into my face. Like I'm trying to blow all the cob webs away. The louder, the better. I have permanent tinnitus in my ears from listening to too loud rock music over the years. I dance around my apt., and have creative thoughts torture me. I cut a swath saber -like through the swirl of imagery and colors and sounds with a deft shake of the booty. I am a true dancer. I feel the music and my toes twirl me around and I take off for the ride. I can't dance like I used to. Not as supple or limber. Still have a nice bod for almost 50. Gag. I hate being my age!
I went to the museum yesterday, which satisfied some of my visual candy fix I need. Andy Warhol. Jackson Pollack. Picasso. Love their stuff. The odder things look to me, the better. I have a very curious mind. I want to see how things originate, and what are the thoughts and creativity behind them. I'm a frustrated artist, songwriter, dancer, writer, poet, scientist.