Oh, and just two weeks ago, I found out my ex-you know, the ex, the one you have the Worst Breakup Ever with and never fully recover-now works right off the same subway stop as me, and the constant unpredictable and painful run-ins with him are making me nauseated. But on the inside: I’m feeling overworked, anxious, completely distracted, and scared that my marriage that hasn’t even started yet is going to end in divorce like my parents’ did. I have a good job at a magazine I’m engaged my Instagram is a probably annoyingly curated mix of happy hour prosecco, recycled Tulum yoga shots from my last vacation, and marathon training (#SeenOnMyRun). On paper, it looks like I have my shit together. My nails are uneven and bitten, my phone is permanently attached to my hand, and I haven’t slept more than four hours straight in months. “What do you want to focus our session on today?” I’m sitting at a wooden table, in a room with yellow walls, to talk about my divorce.
