Still. For the past year, or maybe a bit longer, whenever I sit down at the computer, or walk to the convenience store at night, or climb in bed, or realize the cup sitting on the table will just sit there for eternity unless I pick it up—on any given day, I hear it. Still. This word spawns all sorts of thoughts. They like to sit off to the side and stare at me. I know that being stared at makes me anxious, angry, and depressed, but I can’t bring myself to look straight back at them. It’s just too scary. I know that if I give them my attention, I’ll come to the conclusion that those things
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