I wish you a journey of yellow lights with a bored, smalltown cop riding behind you the entire time. I wish you lactose sensitivities and a gluten allergy at a restaurant that says they have a full gluten-sensitive menu but really only serves two salads. I hope that one of them is your all-time favorite salad and that while you’re enjoying it, a delicious bite goes down the wrong pipe and causes your life to flash before your eyes. I hope that someone in the room learned CPR about three years ago and saves your life, but also cracks a few ribs in the process. The therapist said that I’m not supposed to waste my time wishing you ill so instead, I wish you regularly inconvenienced.
How many of these cardio classes do I have to endure before my depression is cured?
“Start very small. Make your goal something that you can succeed at, like doing the dishes every other day.”
My smiles have been fake all day and now my cheeks, in addition to my soul, hurt.
I have started to think of my mental illness like a to-go meal. I simply don’t have the time to sit down and indulge. I’ve had to learn to be depressed on the run.
He just couldn’t figure out why his child wouldn’t express herself freely and honestly during their counseling sessions when the degrees and certificates on his wall loudly proclaimed stories of his professional excellence.
“No. I’m sure that’s not true. What’s one thing you’ve done well this week?”
“Fail,” she said after very little thought. “My failure game has been quite strong this week.”