I find myself staring at my ceiling a lot at night these days. It’s less insomnia and more me wondering about what it means to be a grown-up and wishing terribly for the days when I was so scared of being on my own that I literally slept on the floor of my parents’ bedroom for weeks at a time. Those, those were the good old days.
She says, half kidding.
I’ve been seeing someone pretty regularly. She’s my therapist. And we have discussions about things I worry about, because, duh, and sometimes she points out that what I’m really doing is finding things to worry about because I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not worrying. Which is totally not true. We all know that I’d just sit around eating ice cream all day if I wasn’t worried about sitting around eating ice cream all day.
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