Have you ever gotten something out of the fridge that you just purchased and then you notice that it’s been opened, but you didn’t open it, and there’s only a smidge of the product missing and then you think, “Oh, my God! Someone has tampered with this! It’s just like the 1982 Tylenol scare all over again!” but then you immediately tell yourself that your husband probably just had some and it’s not poisoned and that you’ll be okay if you consume it, but then you think, “Well, fuck it. Even if some lunatic factory worker laced this with d-CON, I’m going to have it anyway because I really want it and even if I die a violent, convulsing-on-the-floor, bleeding-from-the-ear death, who will care?” No? Maybe it’s just me then.
After this scenario played out in my kitchen the other day, I realized that it was a perfect snapshot of what it’s like to have anxiety and depression. There was fear and panic and “what if?” thinking and sadness and preoccupation with death and feelings of hopelessness. And, it turns out, delicious, not-poisoned juice, too.