Wordsmoker

I’ve started therapy again, with a nice woman on a sliding scale. After an attack on my emotional state aided and abetted by medication roulette, I’m back down to just one anti-depressant, at a dose that makes doctors raise their eyebrows just a tad.  And I’m still making it to the gym at least a few times a week.  I’m doing all the things you’re supposed to do, so why is it that when my therapist asked me the other week to talk about the most recent time I was happy, I couldn’t think of one?

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