This is my head on a Trump detox:         Photo by Mishal Ibrahim on Unsplash

One week. That’s the number. Seven days of white-knuckle discipline, staying clear of the Trump vortex that’s worse than any Twilight Zone episode you’ve ever seen. And don’t kid yourself—this isn’t easy. The guy is everywhere. Newspapers, magazines, the internet, social media, cable—he’s the monster in the funhouse mirror. Look left, there he is. Look right, still there.

So I’ve built a wall. (Don’t laugh.) No national news. Local only. Charity fundraisers, the school board, the weather girl who gets way too excited about beach weather. Small stuff. Safe stuff.

And here’s the truth: I’m working like hell to keep him out of my head. Because once he’s in there, the anger builds, and nothing takes its place. You have to grit your teeth and go “cold turkey.” He poisons everything. Every reasonable thought, every civil instinct, every shred of honesty, decency, care—gone. Contaminated.

Instead, I read more—Sherlock Holmes, the master of logic and clarity. I watch movies—Andy Hardy, harmless as a slice of pie. And I go out. Social events where the talk is light, the laughter easy, and the wine… let’s just say the wine is good.  So, for now, I’m kicking back with some nice Pinot and re-reading Robert Frost, pondering choices made.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

For now.

For now, I won’t stop calling out the president’s abuses of responsibility—but I won’t be doing it as regularly as the past.