“The body keeps score,” my therapist says, her eyeglasses reflecting the blue light from her laptop as she types, “even if the brain doesn’t know it.” I squirm uncomfortably on the small, beige couch.
In my head, I consider how ironic this is. The way I have conditioned myself to crave the condition and routine of certainties in life at a time when my life has so few — and yet the one the one thing I am more certain about than anything else in this world — I dread.
Every September, without fail, the air gets a little cooler, the Southern weather grows tired of constantly changing its mind and patterns — mostly setting for an even-tempered blue sky.
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