depression, because my meds seem to help with that aspect. But anxiety doesn’t leave, fully. It’s never out of the building. It lurks. It reminds you it’s there. Biding its time. At least, for me it does. It took me a long time—and lots of therapy hours—to accept that my anxiety makes life harder, but it doesn’t make me wrong or damaged or . . . well, anything bad. It just . . . is. And sometimes it’s quiet and sometimes it’s loud, and no matter what, I’ve learned to cope. I’m tough. I push through a lot. And some days, I spend a lot of time wishing there were some silver bullet that would
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