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As someone who started seeing a therapist at age nine, the matter seemed simple to me. Take arms against your sea of troubles, damn it.* * *When I came back from Spain, things got worse. “Bad days” meant that he wouldn't go to class, eat, or leave his room. I would bring him a flower or a book to read, trying desperately to cheer him up and stave off his panic attacks. “Nothing you do helps.” I became terrified of setting him off, so much so that I started to see bad moods even when they weren't there. Mysterious neck and shoulder pain led to several ER visits. This was joined by constant headaches and acid reflux that made eating difficult.
I couldn't sleep, and I stopped focusing on my writing because it took so much effort.
As I scrolled through news sites to find pitches for my Bustle articles — Israel Resumes Strike on Gaza as Ceasefire Fails, read one, while another was titled Issa Stands by Subpoena of Top White House Aide — I imagined this article next to them.College Student Breaks Up with Boyfriend, Few Care. However, if I have learned anything from writing, it is that no (wo)man is an island.Articulating your experiences and having someone else respond with yes, I get it, I know what you mean is a type of catharsis that few other things in the world can offer.The way he lived felt, to me, like a kind of not-being.I wondered why Thomas would not take arms against his own sea of troubles, why he wouldn't go to a therapist, why he wouldn't go to a psychiatrist who could adjust his dosage.