Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

“But in mimosa veritas.” Pen leans forward even more. Her voice drops as she makes a sweeping gesture. “I am confiding in you, guys. Being vulnerable. We’re having a moment.”

In mimosa veritas. Totally using that

Bless CBT and its lack of bullshit. There is this thing you do that’s bad for you. I’ll teach you to not do it, your insurance will give me money, and we’ll each go our merry way. BYO trauma. Tissues are on me.

I may not look forward to the agony that comes with exposing the squishy bits of my soul,

Therapy is a privilege. I’m lucky to have it. Above all, I need it.

Therapy is a privilege. I don’t like it, though.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could manage not to constantly let down the people around me?

Maybe I’m hypersensitive when it comes to situations like this one—okay, I’m a stack of hypersensitivities in a trench coat—but I have my reasons, and I’d rather make a fool of myself and err on the side of caution than…whatever the alternative is.

“I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I’m usually overthinking something. Desperately trying to avoid screwing up and working myself up to a panic.” Am I taking up too much space? Boring you? Disappointing you? Would you rather be somewhere else, with someone else? “Overwhelmed by the burden of wondering whether I’m doing it right.”

Where do these people get their bottomless reservoirs of confidence?

My mind… My mind hates me, sometimes.

Between my injury and my inability to stop working until I achieve perfection (i.e., never), I haven’t made many friends in college. Or before.

But that was just a hunch, based on my general assumption that men can be scary and unpredictable. Not all men, I’m sure. Maybe not even most men. But with my past, I cannot help distrusting them until they give me reason not to.

and this thing I’ve been told people should really do if their plans include staying alive for longer than a couple of months. “Sleeping,” Coach calls it. I hear great things. Would love to try it someday.

“Maybe the elephant’s just…blindfolded?” He nods slowly. “And tied up.” “And doing as it’s told.” He looks like he might find that more appealing. “What a good elephant.”

WHAT A GOOD ELEPHANT

“What I like is being on the couch feeling my atoms rot as I succumb to entropy.”