Like a lit cigarette ground into the carpet with a steel-toed boot, the stain of my panic disorder remains and must be dealt with. So, off to the psychiatrist I go for my quarterly wire-brush scrubbing.
While it is hardly as demeaning or as painful as that, on the dreaded “day of” everything is a thousand times worse.
I tire of this burn, yet am still defined by it.
Sometimes that just sucks.