“Some days I wish I knew what it felt like to be you,” my husband says. He says it with a smile because I’ve gone and done an “Ericka” thing again like panic because I’ve run out of gas only to realize I haven’t actually turned on the car. He means it with love. He means it with purely innocent interest.
A piece I wrote for Black Box Warnings about my life with anxiety and depression. Insert rabid giraffe joke here. There we go. Levity.