Dealing With Stress: Natural Stress Relief Through Writing

Is stress mounting? Have you come dangerously close to snapping? Ever want to just smack someone? Well, let old B.T. tell you how a Jackalope deals with stress. I kill someone. Or, at least maim them badly. Don't get me wrong, here. I'm not talking about real violence. Jackalopes are peaceful, by nature.

I have come up with my own simple writing exercise, to deal with stress. It works like a charm, and nobody has to witness a tantrum, or worse. When things get a little too hot, and I can feel the pulse in my temples, I write a short piece about it. And it usually doesn't end well, for my would-be tormentor.

Usually, I make up a character. This way, I'm not taking out my rage on anyone specific. I have found that this eliiminates lingering bad feelings. But in the following example, I have used a familiar name. I sure hope this guy has a sense of humor. I don't really bear him any grudge.

I scribbled this out on my lunch break, on a particularly bad day at work. It is not intended to be a polished story, but it served its purpose.

Ah yes. The number three breakfast special. Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, and a side of biscuits and gravy. Not the healthiest fare, but it was the Mighty Hunter's favorite. He gulped it greedily, completely unaware that it was to be his last meal. Using his toast (liberally buttered, of course) to mop up every last bit of gravy, his mind was elsewhere. Opening day had finally arrived, and he was mentally checking off items on his list.

Satisfied that he had packed all of the essentials, he went about the business of licking the last dribs of butter off his knife. Using his finger, he liberated what remnants of gravy remained on his plate. Not even the last smear of bacon grease went unclaimed. He was paying six bucks for this breakfast ($6.75, if you include the tip), and he intended to enjoy every last bit of it.

It was a slow day, and the waitress had no other customers. She had nothing to do but watch, and wait for him to be done. They danced this dance three times a week, and she had learned not to bring the bill during the grand finale. The grunting, and the sound of smacking lips as he licked the flatware, and finger-mopped his plate were more than she could bear.

As he inspected his work, making sure he had not missed a single morsel; the waitress choked back her nausea and brought the check. She put it on the table, and hazarded a glance at the beast. There was gravy matted in his beard, and egg on his shirt. "Redneck doggie bag", she thought, and had to stifle a giggle.

Looking at his watch, he hastily gulped his fourth cup of coffee, and tossed three quarters on the table. He paid on his way out, and paused to consider asking the waitress if she would care to go for drinks, later. He knew that would give her a thrill. He couldn't finish a single meal, without catching her staring at him. "Nah", he thought. "Bigger fish to fry, today."

A two hour drive to the woods, was more than enough time for breakfast to settle in, and all that coffee to do its work. He guided his truck into a gravel parking area at the edge of the woods. With a three mile hike through thick forest still ahead of him, he was relieved to see the familiar green hut, at the far end of the park. "Johnny on the spot!", he said. "Friend to hunters, everywhere!"

He nosed his truck in, about ten feet from the door. He pulled out his pack, and set it on the hood. Then, he leaned his rifle (More of a small cannon, really. A testament to his atrocious shooting skills) against the bumper.

He sat inside for twenty minutes. Listening to the buzzing flies, picturing the Jackalope that would soon be on the wall of his den, and doing, well, we all know what the green hut is for.

He emerged, feeling like a new man, but something felt very wrong. He looked around, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Then it struck him. His rifle! Where was the cannon!?

From behind him came a metallic "Click", and a familiar voice. "Ahem. Looking for this, old friend?"

He turned, and to his horror, there was the Jackalope. Two Jackalopes, actually. His rifle was being steadied on the antlers of one of them. The other, was peering through the scope, with his paw on the trigger.

I'll stop there, for now. I've left him alive, for the moment. I'll wait and see how things develop between us, from here. If he continues to harangue me with nasty comments and threats, I will have to revisit this story. But I think you get the gist of this whole exercise.

I have used this technique, for years, and it has served me well. I have lowered my blood pressure and overall stress level, and none of my victims are the wiser. Of course, once the venom is out, I usually delete everything. It's sort of symbolic, and it's a step you should not skip. If you don't delete the anger, then it remains there to dwell upon.

It also serves as practice for your writing skill (not that what I do requires skill). I know you're probably thinking I have a sick mind. I may need professional help. But give it a try, and see if it doesn't help. It does the trick, for me, and it's a whole lot cheaper than therapy.