I like to think I’m a therapist’s poster child.
I imagine an exponentially increasing slope on the imaginary line graph monitoring my mental health. I keep all my appointments and execute all professional instructions with anecdotal proof that “it’s working.” I’m funny, affable, and complimentary. I stay on my medication and incorporate holistic practices: regular exercise, healthy eating, social engagement. Check, check, check.
But I do have one closeted habit: a perennial evening companion who, for 22 minutes (or more), offers a nostalgic reprieve from the evening anxiety that starts revving up once the activity of the day dies down…
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