I need to find a new therapist, but then I remembered how much money easily slipped out of my bank account the last time I had one. It’s okay cause the setting sun makes it easier to catch up on my reading. It doesn’t feel like I’ll reach my reading goal this year, but I’ve enjoyed every book I’ve read and am glad I made a commitment to return to something I love and stuck with it.

The part about reading is all true, but, also, it’s not okay. I’m two phone calls away from a panic attack these days. My anxiety is hardly bearable. It floods me with all these negative thoughts and I am skinning my palms trying to get a firm grasp on the truth. I pray my feelings aren’t the truth. I pray I’m worth more than how I feel.

I moved up Furiously Happy on my reading list. It never feels safe listening to someone else talk about their depression. Not when I’m at my best and especially not when I’m careening towards a depressive spell. But I’ve pretty much pushed everyone away. I don’t really talk outside of being talked to. I don’t even talk aloud to myself much anymore. Now it’s too dark to escape to nature after work. Being furiously happy sounds too exhausting to me, but I’m praying there is something there for me. Because my hair is the red of all my dreams and I’m still not happy.