What do you think?

How are you?

Jerry said, looking into the distance.

"I'm fine", I said, ....

"Something's off," Jerry said.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Not well, I guess, I said, remembering my crinkled pillow, the sheets tossed and turned in, the light I couldn't turn off, no matter how much I tried.

"Are you taking care of your home?"

I bristled and barked, offended by his insinuation.

Yes, of course, I said, secretly mentally checking to make sure I had cleaned my house this week.

"Carol, this is my job".

It was then I snapped back into reality-I was not in a charming cafe in Los Angeles, sipping on a cappuccino, I was in the green velvet chair of my psychiatrist's office, pouring my troubles out, my sadness's, my most unwell thoughts.

Look, Jerry, I've been coming here for months, and you know I always tell you the truth, to the best of my ability.

Carol, something is wrong, and you aren't sharing it.

I touched the fine silk wallpaper and ran my fingers over the velvet couch.

"I can't sleep", I said, the words were pinched as they came out.

"Are you taking the Effexor I gave you?"

Jerry asked.

"No," I said, staring into the distance again.

"Carol, how can I help you if you won't open up, or try the things I've prescribed? Your mother sent you here for therapy because you hoarded your house and tried to kill yourself.

you quit your job and started doing heroin.

I laughed, thinking about the steep transition. Before I came to Los Angeles, I was a straight-A student. I graduated top of my class as a social worker.

But when I got to Los Angeles, I had severe anxiety. The extroversion of the city wore me down. I was good at quiet books, quiet cafes, calm waters. I was not good at dealing with loud honking horns, angry pedestrians, angry people, and loud sunshine boring down into my soul every moment of the day.

First, I was a temp, the drive on the highway was my nightmare, then the job itself-I just tried to put my head down and forget where I was.

My anxiety screamed loudly at me wherever I went. By the time my mother arrived 4 years later, my house had been hoarded out to 14 cats.

.

I laughed, thinking about the steep transition. Before I came to Los Angeles, I was a straight-A student. I graduated from the top of my class as a social worker.

But when I got to Los Angeles, I had severe anxiety. The extroversion of the city wore me down. I was good at quiet books, quiet cafes, calm waters. I was not good at dealing with loud honking horns, angry pedestrians, angry people, and loud sunshine boring down into my soul every moment of the day.

First, I was a temp, the drive on the highway was my nightmare, then the job itself-I just tried to put my head down and forget where I was.

My anxiety screamed at me wherever I went. By the time my mother arrived 4 years later, my house had been hoarded out to 14 cats.

“Have you been speaking with Bret?”

No, I said, starting into the distance.

My mind went into another reverie,

I saw Bret underneath the overpass.

The cool glass of the heroin needle filled with smoke and air, as he exhaled, a sigh of relief.

In my mind, I ran to him, tried to wake him up. I wasn’t past me-I was present me.

I was present, sober, not cat hoarding me. Who did things like see a psychiatrist, pay her bill s and clean her kitchen.

I still had my vices, though.

My mind danced to my other secret-my new addiction-online shopping and binge eating. You see, nobody could catch me in a binge, because eating is a part of regular “healthy” people living.

If I bought five tons of guacamole on the internet, I could just say I was stocking up for the winter-that it was for safekeeping.

Jerry the therapist looked pensively at me.

Oh how sick I was of wearing these silly plaid skirts to his office and pretending to be any sort of way.

The plaid itched my skin, and was from “ross dress for less”.

My mother had picked them out. One lonely day she arrived by plane at LAX, cried vociferously when she looked at my

“Have you been speaking with Bret?”

No, I said, starting into the distance.

My mind went into another reverie,

I saw Bret underneath the overpass.

The cool glass of the heroin needle filled with smoke and air, as he exhaled, a sigh of relief.

In my mind, I ran to him, tried to wake him up. I wasn’t past me-I was present me.

I was present, sober, not cat hoarding me. Who did things like see a psychiatrist, pay her bill s and clean her kitchen.

I still had my vices, though.

My mind danced to my other secret-my new addiction-online shopping and binge eating. You see, nobody could catch me in a binge, because eating is a part of regular “healthy” people living.

If I bought five tons of guacamole on the internet, I could just say I was stocking up for the winter-that it was for safekeeping.

Jerry the therapist looked pensively at me.

Oh how sick I was of wearing these silly plaid skirts to his office and pretending to be any sort of way.

The plaid itched my skin, and was from “ross dress for less”.

My mother had picked them out. One lonely day she arrived by plane at LAX, cried vociferously when she looked at my

“Have you been speaking with Bret?”

No, I said, starting into the distance.

My mind went into another reverie,

I saw Bret underneath the overpass.

The cool glass of the heroin needle filled with smoke and air, as he exhaled, a sigh of relief.

In my mind, I ran to him, tried to wake him up. I wasn’t past me-I was present me.

I was present, sober, not cat hoarding me. Who did things like see a psychiatrist, pay her bill s and clean her kitchen.

I still had my vices, though.

My mind danced to my other secret-my new addiction-online shopping and binge eating. You see, nobody could catch me in a binge, because eating is a part of regular “healthy” people living.

If I bought five tons of guacamole on the internet, I could just say I was stocking up for the winter-that it was for safekeeping.

Jerry the therapist looked pensively at me.

Oh how sick I was of wearing these silly plaid skirts to his office and pretending to be any sort of way.

The plaid itched my skin, and was from “ross dress for less”.

My mother had picked them out. One lonely day she arrived by plane at LAX, cried vociferously when she looked at my