You don’t have to be a psychotherapist (like me!) to realize that I’m probably depressed. Not just because our country’s been trying to kill itself (at least actively) for the last five to six years, but because when you are anxious, almost uninterruptedly, for concerted periods of time, your body can’t physically maintain its normal level of engagement. So, like a car engine stuck in first gear, you overheat. Eventually, if you ignore the warning signs for long enough, your engine turns off and forces you onto the shoulder where, I guess to keep the metaphor going, you watch Netflix in your sweatpants and scroll other peoples’ vacation footage on Instagram until you cry and (hypothetically) shame-eat a dozen original glazed Krispy Kreme donuts.
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