I found this to be so frustrating and unfair, because it seemed like now that I wasn’t drowning myself in wine every night, life should automatically be… easier. Better. My body should feel like a demigod’s. I wanted the energy to do all the things lighting up my brain: write more, start a podcast, start my book, fix up my apartment, clean my car, paint my bedroom, find a boyfriend, live — but most days, I could barely make it through the afternoon without crying.
