So we meet again, Pandora.

I’m not a group person, unless it’s a group home for the non-criminally insane but I’m not quite there ... yet. Crises and ongoing extreme stress have a way of upending the self and the proverbial Pandora’s box. This ride of late, well, it’s less fun than a roller coaster on five hits of acid. Fortunately that holds not even the slightest appeal as entertainment  having been reminded of the perils of acid overkill by a video montage of Syd Barrett viewed just yesterday.

The contents of Pandora’s box are never pretty. They’re not supposed to be. If they were, it’d be called Aphrodite’s box. In any event, their unleashing by stressful times leaves me in over my head, a rare sensation indeed. So after some research and telephoning, I located a group for one of Pandora’s heavier issues. This is good. This group meets only once a month; I’d prefer weekly. I’ll take what I can get and go in with an open mind. If it clicks, I’ll continue, if not, I’ll be on my way, no harm done.

I really do not like groups; in my world, three’s comfy and 10’s a crowd. On the other hand, there are those rare occasions when a little support and camaraderie could mean, symbolically, the difference between roller-blading on Sundays in a park or burial in Pandora’s box. And my disinclination for groups is exceeded, even if only marginally, by that for contraptions with lids.