Joshua Ericson 0:11

Welcome back to BrainverseMe. I am your host, Joshua Erickson. We're going to do something a little bit different today. I recently released my book Therapy is Weird. Apparently, I'm the problem. And most of the book, like many of the others in the Brain vs. Me series, are memoir first, self-help-ish, talking about mental health. Everything is viewed through my lens, and I encourage people to try to help themselves by listening to all of my mistakes. And I hope it makes a difference. So far, I've heard some good stories, so yeah, I'm hoping it helps you too. But what I want to do today is I want to read one of my day in the life chapters. At the end of every Brainverse Me book, which are nonfiction, I have one fictional chapter where I discuss a or go over a scenario based very strongly on something that I've experienced, and it kind of illustrates what I was talking about in the book just through a very realistic lens. Not everything in the data in the life chapters is 100% the way it happened, but it is close enough that it is still very personal. And what I'd like to do today is actually go ahead and read the whole chapter. These chapters tend to be longer than the typical chapters I have, so this will probably take me a good 30 minutes or so to get through. But hopefully uh hopefully you like it. So this is a day in the life of my therapy brain by me, Joshua Erickson. Six oh one AM. The alarm buzzes like it's annoyed with me personally. I slap at it until it shuts up. Then lie still in the dark for a few seconds. Not quite awake, not quite asleep, but not ready to start the day. The room is quiet, not peaceful, just quiet. The kind of quiet that dares you to check the time again, even though you already know what it'll say. I glance over, six oh one AM, twelve hours to go. I sit up, rub my face, swing my legs off the bed. Floor is cold, which feels like a punishment for waking up on time. My body's sore in weird, small ways, neck, shoulders, chest, tension I don't remember earning. And somehow I think I sprained my ankle in my sleep. I already know today is therapy day. But I don't feel it yet, not fully. Right now it's just a thought on the horizon, far enough away that I can pretend it's just a normal Tuesday for a little while longer. Still, I feel the edge of it, like a storm a few times over. six oh three AM. I should be asleep, or unconscious, or both, but no, I have to be human again. The bathroom light flickers on, harsh, too bright, and bounces off the tile, making me squint. I catch my reflection in the mirror, dishevelled hair, dark circles, a face lined deeper than sleep should explain. I look away, can't hold it. I reach in and turn the faucet. Its cold metal bites at my fingers, but I don't flinch. It matches the mood. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, blotting me out. The sound of rushing water fills the space, a temporary distraction from the noise in my head. Stepping in, the water hits my back, hot, a little too hot, but I don't adjust it, I just stand there, letting it sting a little. It's not soothing. But maybe I don't deserve soothing. I wait for it to wake me up or calm me down. It doesn't. I feel numb and overwhelmed at the same time. The steed from the hot water feels thick, close, like it's pressing in from every direction. I lean forward, eyes closed, forward, resting on the cool tile, looking for relief just for a moment. The thought creeps in before I can stop it. Today's the day it circles. It gathers weight. Shame. That's what we're talking about. I know it. My therapist knows it. My body knows it too. Chest tight, stomach clenched, like I'm bracing for impact. What I've learned is that shame doesn't wait for the words. It shows up in the body first. Before I can even name it. My stomach's already a knots. My chest is heavy. My voice is quieter in my own head. That's how I know it's not just anxiety, it's shame. And it always gets there first. This isn't going to be a session. It's fear. It'll be a reckoning. Shame has always been the worst one. Not the loudest, not even the sharpest, but the one that sticks. It doesn't just say you messed up. It says you are the mess. And once it gets in, it echoes. It is unrelenting. I try to ignore it, reason with it, plead, but it won't stop. I shift my focus to the physical, hot water on my shoulders, the cold tile in my hand, the steam thick, close, like it's pressing in from every direction, heavy, close. Okay. No, not today. I shake my head like that'll clear it. Try to shift something else. Anything else? Work. Fine work. Greg spilled coffee on his keyboard yesterday. Again. Swore it with sabotage, blamed the intern, said they were jealous of his ergonomic setup, which is just two Amazon boxes and a Bluetooth mouse. I actually laughed, felt human for a second. I wince, not from the water, from that. Hearing myself snap at Bill when he made that smug ass comment about deadlines. I could have ignored it, should have, but I didn't. And here it comes. Judgment. Full volume. Nice job. Way to stay regulated. A plus use of skills. I hear my therapist's voice in my head. Can we notice that without judging it? And just like that, yep. Now I've got therapy. Which means I have to talk about it. She's going to ask how my week went. She's going to ask if I want to look at my journal, and if I'm answer honestly and I always do, even when I don't want to, then I'll have to say it. I lost control. Again, I let it out. Not helpful, not skillful, definitely not regulated. I hate that word. The water falls on me, drumming slightly on my head, sliding down my neck over my back, undeterred by anything, like it's tracing every mistake I've tried not to think about. You should have taken a deep breath first. You should have walked away. You should have done literally anything other than what you did. And now I have to sit in a virtual room with someone who will ask me why. Not to punish me, not to judge me, just to make me say it out loud. And somehow that feels worse. I open my eyes and look at the fogged up glass door, already dreading the part of my day that hadn't even happened yet. six thirty AM I towel off, dress and head downstairs. The stairs creak the same way they always do. The kitchen is already alive, cabinets open and close, something clatters into the sink, the dog's nails click across the tile. I move through it all like a background extra in my own life. The coffee pot is empty, of course. I fill the kettle, start it, stare out the window while it heats. The calendar catches my eye. Red circle seven PM therapy. My stomach tightens I pour the water, stir the instant granules, and hold the mug between my palms. The warmth helps, but doesn't fix anything. Movement swirls around me, kids in motion, cereal boxes being shuffled. Someone's searching for a backpack. I'm not following any of it, I'm just here. A lunch bag appears on the counter. I don't remember packing it, but apparently I did, or someone did. A worksheet lands in front of me. I nod, pretend to read it, hand it back. Shit, I didn't do my homework. Therapy homework, not real homework, but it still counts. And she's going to ask. Another kid reaches for juice. I vaguely track curly hair and tall limbs in the sense that I'm supposed to respond to something. I don't. A voice cuts through the noise, resolving a question I didn't register. Someone answers for me, probably her. I glance at the clock. I'm going to be late. nine thirty AM. I've been at work for ninety minutes, but it feels like three hours. Plenty of time to make myself look emotionally stable, or at least not actively unraveling. Supposed to be working, supposed to be answering emails. Instead I'm flipping through my journal entries from the week, each one worse than the last. One trails off mid sentence, another just ends with I don't know why I bother. Cool, that'll look great shared on the screen tonight. I hover over one entry, consider softening it, editing, rounding the edges. And I don't lie in therapy, even when I really, really want to. Because how else am I going to get better? But truth can still wear a costume, and I know mine well, self aware, articulate, productive. Perform healing well enough, and maybe no one asks what's still broken underneath. If I can't be honest with someone who doesn't judge me, whose literal job is to help me, then what's the point? eleven forty five AM I glance at the wall clock across the hallway seven hours. Seven hours until I have to pretend I'm not pretending. A coworker walks by, eye contact, quick smile. I offer one back, just a flicker, the tired but hanging in version. It lands well enough. Default mode, mask on. But inside, I'm already unraveling. Just quieter about it here. And suddenly I'm wondering, how many times have I done this? How many rooms have I smiled through while unraveling? It's not just at work, it's therapy too. I talk around the pain, I narrate it like I'm describing someone else's. I make it clean, digestible. I'm not lying, I'm just translating. three thirty PM. I'm back at my desk, everything's moving. Emails, conversations, fluorescent lights buzzing, but I'm not part of it. I just spent an hour convinced I was getting fired, and even though it's over, the anxiety's still echoing in my chest like an aftershock. I don't feel right. Not in danger not unwell just wrong. My fingers are moving, but I don't remember what they're doing. I feel like I'm watching someone else work. I try to remember a skill. Body scan, yeah, that's the one. Heart's pounding, breathing fast, stomach tight. This isn't good. I shift the breathing, paced, slow. I know what to do. Doesn't mean it's easy. The panic is fading, but the fog is thick. I survived a fake crisis but still feel like shit. five thirty PM The office door closes behind me and I step into the crisp evening air. The drive is a blur, brake lights, swallowed thoughts, a near mist that sends heat crawling up my spine. I get home in one piece, not calm, just here. The house is familiar. Lit windows, porch light on, garlic already bleeding out into the air like a memory. I walk in and get greeted the same way I always do. Dog nails scrambling against hardwood, tail thumping, tongue joy. It's always pure joy. I kneel down, scratch behind her ears, let her press into me like I've been gone for days. At least someone's always happy to see me. The kitchen is warm, busy, loud, comfortable in a way I can't quite reach, not today. Someone's humming, something's sizzling, a Lego spaceship under construction sits on the table, Jackson hunched over it, laser focused. I slide into the chair across and watch his hands work. He doesn't look up, I don't say anything. Caleb drifts into the room, phone in hand. I look up thinking maybe I should ask about track or school or anything. I don't. The table fills, food appears, we eat. I smile when I should, nod when expected, laugh on cue. But my brain is already in the garage. Already sitting in the chair, already staring at the screen, waiting for her to log in. Waiting for me to explain myself again. Dinner's over, the boys vanish to their rooms, Anna curls up on the couch with a book. I linger at the table, laptop open. Ten minutes until therapy. I reach for my journal app and that's when it hits. Shit, I didn't do my homework. Now the real world kind. Not the your kid will fail math kind, the therapy kind, the one that matters tonight. I open the file, barely anything there, just a title, a question, and nothing underneath. It's an exercise on shame, what it feels like in the body, what triggers it. Even just reading the first prompt makes my skin crawl. I hate this one. I know it's supposed to help, I know avoidance doesn't get me anywhere, but I've been in therapy long enough to recognize this exact pattern. Feel discomfort, want to flee, consider canceling. I even entertain it for a second. Maybe I just don't log in tonight. Say I'm sick, take a break, maybe forever. But that little voice, the one that's learned about opposite action, chimes in. If you don't want to do it, you probably should. I exhale, try to settle, try to face it. It's not guilt, there's no I shouldn't have. It's deeper than that. It's not I did something bad, it's I am the thing that's wrong. Not a mistake. Me. The whole me. And I know the phrase thoughts don't make you a bad person, but try convincing my brain of that. It's not guilt. There's no I shouldn't have. It's deeper, colder. It's I am. I am the thing that's wrong. I force myself to type something fast. Not enough. Just something. Face hot, shoulders tight, breathe shallow, like I'm hiding in plain sight. I stare at it. It looks small on the screen, but it doesn't feel small. I sigh, I close the app, grab the laptop, and stand up from the table. I could sit on the couch for a few minutes, pretend to decompress, scroll through something, but comfort's a trap tonight. So I walk through the house, slip out the back door, and head down the short path to the garage. The detached space sits just under my home office, same four walls, same desk, but on therapy nights, it feels different. The air inside is still warmer than it should be. The scent of wood and old projects lingers like memory. I flick on the desk lamp. The soft glow lands on a familiar clutter. Notebooks, headphones, the empty mug I keep meaning to wash. This is where I take the calls that matter, where I go when I need to focus, and where once a week I sit down and peel myself open. I set the laptop down. Pull up the link. Seven PM I log on. She's already there. Hey, she says, smiling, calm, steady. Her voice is always the same, soft but structured, like the room's foundation showing up to hold me up. Hey, I say back. My throat feels tight. She waits gently. Rough week? I nod. Yeah. She nods. No judgment, just space. Let's start with a journal, and then we'll go into your homework. And she guides us in. I share my screen, I already know what's in there. The parts I'm proud of, sure, a few moments, but the real stuff, the mess, that's what she zeroes in on every time, and she should, that's her job. Doesn't mean I like it. We scroll, she pauses on an entry that stings a little. Of course she does. Can you walk me through what was happening here? I hate this part, I hate this part. Not because I don't want to be honest, I do. Hell I am. I write it all down because if you're not honest in therapy, then what's the point? But still, having to speak it out loud, admit it with voice and eye contact and vulnerability, that's different. That's worse. She starts a chain analysis. What was the prompting event? How did you feel physically? What did you do next? I try to remember, but my brain goes blank like it always does in these moments. It's like I lived it and immediately place it in a box labeled do not open. So she keeps asking questions, slowly, gently, methodically peeling back the layers until something clicks. And it does, eventually. I start remembering. The moment, the trigger, the way my body tensed, the thoughts that spiral, the thing I said, the thing I shouldn't have said. We talk through it. She asks what I did right, which is her way of asking where I didn't screw up. I get it. It's compassionate phrasing, but it still lands the same. What could you have done differently? Where was the fork in the road? My internal translator here is where did you fail? And I judge myself hard. I know I shouldn't, but I do. I think about all the times I could have paused, all the moments I felt it building and still walked straight into the fire. And I spiral, quietly, invisibly because I'm still on camera, still in the session, still nodding like I'm fine. She brings up a different entry, one I barely remember writing. She walks me through it and points at how I handled it. Turns out I did something right. Like right. I used the skill, reflexively, without thinking. It was in me somewhere and it showed up. And for a second I feel good, not fake good, not dopamine hit from getting a like good, but real holy shit, I'm growing good. Can we go back to this line she says? I already know the one. Felt like I was overthinking everything again. I nod. Yeah, that's kinda my Tuesday mood. It comes up a lot, she says, not unkindly. Yeah, classic me. She gives it space, then. What does that usually look like? I explain the usual loop, rewriting emails, preparing for every scenario like I'm trying to out think gravity, dodging things I don't know how to navigate, trying to prefail in my head so it won't hurt if it happens in real life. She listens, nods. And do those scenarios usually happen? No. She nods again. What do you think is underneath it this week? I don't know, honestly. She watches my reaction for a moment, satisfied there really isn't more to it, agrees we should move on. I feel myself disassociating. I'm answering questions I barely remember hearing. Thoughts are coming quick, jumbled. I'm already focused on what's coming in a few minutes, and that's probably because I know what's coming. I felt it since the morning. I felt it all day. It's shame. And I know it. Not because I feel bad about something I did, but because I feel bad about being the kind of person who would even think it. I've heard it before, thoughts don't make you a bad person. But try convincing my brain of that. It's not guilt. There's no apologies, just shame. It convinced me that I'm the thing that's wrong. Are you good? Do you need a minute? she asks. How did she know? Well, I'm not surprised. She always seems to know. Yes, thank you. We sit in that silence for a beat. Then she scrolls again. Different entry, different story. I already know where it's going. I had a moment. A clear one, I was aware of how I felt tight chest, hot face, clenched fists. I knew I was about to make a reckless decision, I said out loud to myself, fuck it, I'm doing it anyway. And I did. Could I have lied to her? Sure. Could have glossed over that part, but what would that even accomplish? The truth is uncomfortable, but at least it's real. If I want to change, I want to stop doing that exact shit, then she has to know what I did. So I tell her. All of it. And it stinks. Not just because of the event itself, but because I can feel myself slipping into self-loathing mode. It's subtle at first, but the judgment's coming on strong, and and it's not even from her, it's me. I'm the one beating myself up. We keep growing, and the rhythm of the session settles in. Question, pause, dig, refame, repeat. Eventually we finish the agenda and I see the clock creeping towards the break. Fifteen minutes until session two. Fifteen minutes until shame. And just like that, the dread comes flooding back. 8 PM break time. 15 minutes to breathe. Except I don't breathe, I just sit there staring at the screen. Anxiety creeps up my spine like it's rehearsed routine a hundred times, which let's be real, it has.

unknown 21:19

Fuck.

Joshua Ericson 21:20

I don't want to do this. I start running escape plans. Could my Wi-Fi cut out? Could I fake a sudden illness? Would she believe me if I said the dog unplugged the router? Do I even have a dog? Fifteen minutes. I could disappear, leave the country, start fresh in Iceland. There's no one there to ask about my feelings that make me want to melt into a puddle of regret. Instead I open YouTube. It's a weak distraction, but it works, sort of. A few mindless videos on loop. Maybe she won't show. Maybe her power went out. Maybe oh hey, you're back. Shit. We're doing this. eight fifteen PM She smiles. I smile back, not a real smile. It's a mask, it's always a mask. I'm doing the usual I'm fine routine. The one that's worked every time, the one I know by heart. But inside I'm screaming. Let's take a look at the shame homework, she says. And I want to run. I want to disappear. Instead, I freeze. She starts asking questions about events I'd rather forget. But this time it's not vague. She knows what it is. We've talked about it before, and somehow that makes it worse. My skin's already prickling. My chest is already tight. My hands keep moving, scratching my nose, covering my mouth, brushing my jaw like I can scrub the shame off. I look anywhere but at her, not at the camera, not at the screen, not at her face. I can't. Because she knows. And I know she's going to ask me to say it again out loud. Like naming it will be easier. But it isn't. It rips something open. She sees it. Of course she does. She's seen it before. But she also knows me, knows I'll do anything to sidestep it, so she pushes, gently, but relentlessly. And she's not wrong to push. This is the thing I keep avoiding. The thing I've dressed in sarcasm and buried under structure. She's not trying to hurt me, she's trying to help me say the thing that feels unspeakable. She doesn't laugh at my jokes. So I try to pivot to a different story. One that's easier, one that doesn't twist like this one. She circles back. Tell me what happened, she says. I need you to describe it, what was going through your mind. And I want to say no. I want to close the laptop. I want to walk outside and keep walking. But I just sit there. And the silence between us stretches. Not awkward, not angry, just honesty. And I hate that honesty feels suffocating. I shifted my seat. The feeling the ceiling feels lower tonight, like it's leaning in. The lamp behind me hums faintly, barely audible but constant. I can't tell if it's always been that loud or if my body's just turned up the volume on everything. The corners of the room feel sharper, like the garage is listening, like the air itself is waiting for me to crack. There's nothing really to say. I think I forgot. Can we move on? She keeps watching my reactions, my uncomfortable shifts. Why isn't she saying anything? Oh my god. She thinks I overreacted. Did she just shift in her chair? That means something. She's disappointed. Got it. Okay, tell me, what were you feeling? I don't know. Frustration, I guess. Where do you feel it? Chest? Short, one word. Can't do more than that. Why does she always ask about my body? Like I'm supposed to have a roadmap of tension. It was everywhere, okay? Okay, and what did the chest tightness mean to you in that moment if it had a message? It meant I was failing again. That I couldn't do it, be normal, be good, whatever. My voice softened, slows, not broken but unraveling. Shit, was that too dramatic? Now she's gonna think I'm resisting. She's gonna push, or worse, pull back. You weren't failing. You were overwhelmed. That doesn't make you weak, it makes you human. Can we sit with that for a second? No I say it too fast, too loud, then quieter, I mean I don't know. I don't want to feel human, I want to feel better. Shit, was that too dramatic? My eyes sting. I don't speak. But I don't leave. She keeps asking questions gently, persistently. I try to hold it together, answer the questions, but the words feel like they're getting stuck, stretched thin. I don't want to do this. I don't want to talk about this, but I don't want to feel this. Then there's something about the way she's speaking so calm, so steady that makes the frustration build in me like a tiler wave. Why do I have to keep explaining myself? Why can't she just see it? I'm already starting to feel cornered, and I can't get out. My chest tightens, the usual pressure builds. I know I should just breathe, it's not her fault, but I'm so tired, tired of pretending I've got it all under control, I'm tired of being so fucking good at this mask. Her questions don't stop, same tome, same cadence. Like she's reading from a manual and I'm the case study. They should be helpful, but it's like they're poking at the wound and I can't stop the blood from coming. I don't know how to tell her I needed to stop without disappointing her, without looking like a failure again. But she is insistent I answer it, that I say it. Why does she keep talking like this is easy? Why does she sound like a fucking guided meditation when I'm trying not to come apart? I feel it rising hot and heavy and fast, the shame, the pressure, the weight of holding it in. The mask is cracking, I can hear it. I can feel it splintering inside of me, and then I just and then it just breaks. Stop! I can't fucking do this anymore. That wasn't a strategy. That was survival. It wasn't just frustration, it was my body finally refusing to carry this thing alone. She didn't ghost me after she didn't shut down. She follow up. She said sorry it felt like too much. She didn't have to say that, but she did. That's the thing about shame. When it hits, it doesn't ask permission, it hijacks everything. My voice cuts the air like glass. I don't even recognize it as mine, too loud, too raw, too real. It's not a confession. It's a scream from under the floorboards, and a silence that follows feels deafening. And I don't care. I don't care how it sounds. I don't care what it means. I just needed it out of me. The words are out of my mouth, and I can't take them back. I feel hot, cornered, exposed. She pauses. I don't need to see her face and know she's surprised. She's never seen me like this before. I didn't know you were that upset, she says. And I want to yell, how could you not? But I know the answer because I've made myself an expert at hiding it. The mask, the jokes, the I'm fine routine. It's all second nature by now. I spent my entire life performing safety while drowning inside, and if she couldn't see through it, what chances anyone else have? That thought it breaks something in me. We don't finish the session. We stop early because I'm no longer in a place to do anything productive. I'm angry at her, at myself, at everything. I close the laptop and just sit. eight forty PM The air in the garage feels heavier now, like it knows what just happened. I wish it would let me know because I don't know what just happened. But it happened. I stare at the ceiling, jaw clenched, heart pounding. My chest aches from holding it all in, and then not. I can still hear myself. I can't do this Too loud, too raw, too honest. My throat tightens and then it hits. What the hell did I just do? I ended it or maybe she did. I don't even know anymore. I rub my face with both hands and lean forward, elbows on knees, breathing like I just ran ten miles. The silence is deafening. Except it's not really silent. The clock ticks loud, relentless. The old fridge hums behind me like it's judging me. Somewhere outside a dog barks distant and closer. Everything is too loud, and none of it is helping. I feel like I'm vibrating with this thing inside me, this fire, this shame, this grief that's wearing my anger like a skin. I want to throw something. Not at her, not even at me, just out, just away. I can't believe I snapped. I've never snapped. Not like that. Not in therapy. I felt like it before, sure, but I always held it together. Always smelled through it, laughed it off, talked around it. But tonight it slipped. No, I slipped. And now I don't know what she's thinking. Maybe she's rattled, maybe she's annoyed, maybe she's wondering if I'm worth the work. I want to text her. I want to say something like I used to think if I just kept doing things right, I wouldn't feel this way, if I just said it better, smiled enough, fixed it fast, but that's not healing. That's just perfectionism wearing a therapist approved outfit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm okay now. Lies, probably. I don't know what I'd even be apologizing for. For being real? That's the worst part. The thing I'm mad at myself for is telling the truth. I stare at the floor and something inside just caves. I don't want to be seen like that, not by her, not by anyone. And yet I think maybe part of me did. Just for a second. Because holding it in was starting to break me anyway. I feel raw, like a nerve exposed to air, and suddenly I'm just tired. Tired of rehearsing every sentence, tired of pretending I'm okay, tired of being the resilient one. Tired of doing this alone. It's too warm. The walls still feel too close. My thoughts are too loud, the space is too quiet, and I don't want to be alone in my thoughts anymore either. I feel trapped. Not by the room, by my brain. Almost claustrophobic. I need air. I get up and open the garage door. The night folds over me cool and quiet, but not silent. Cars in the distance, dogs barking, a neighbor's too loud TV, and that's what I think of her. Anna. Inside on the couch, probably half watching a show she's already seen before. Probably wondering if I'm okay, but not pressing. Not because she doesn't care, but because she knows me well enough to wait until I come to her. I sit with that for a while. Just a thought of her calm something in me. Not everything, but something. Mask on, not to lie, just to function. I roll my shoulders back, breathe once, cross the backyard, every step presses into the lawn, soft and even, still damp in the evening air. The porch light spills across the yard golden and quiet like the house is waiting for me. I walk over the knee to half hoping the night air might rinse something off. I reach the door and pause before I step inside. The door creaks open, and warmth greets me from inside. I walk toward the living room. She looks up briefly, smiles. I sit down next to her, the couch dips slightly as I sit. Her leg brush is mine, warm through the blanket draped across us. A candle flickers on the side table, vanilla and something earthy. Home. The TV plays low. Some show we've seen before, dialogue soft like background music. We don't say anything. I don't look at her. I don't need to. She's here, and right now that's everything. She leans into me, and for the first time all night, I don't feel like I'm falling apart. I still don't know what happens next. But that's confusing. I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure. I thought I was getting better, I thought I had this handled. Tonight proved otherwise. And that's not failure, that's therapy. But therapy doesn't always feel good, and tonight proved that. Honestly, if this were anyone else, I might have logged off, but it's her. She's good, she's smart, she's determined to help. And yeah, that still matters. She even reached out after, not to fix it, not to explain, just to say she was still here, that she saw me, that she was sorry I felt hurt, even if she'd been doing her job. That call mattered more than she probably knows. But still, I hated everything about tonight. I hated how it felt. I hated that she was right. It cost me something every time. But maybe it gives me something too. And still, I know I'm coming back next week because as shitty as it felt, something good happened. The mask cracked wide open tonight. Maybe that's how shame dies. Not with a breakthrough, not with a clean confession, not even with comfort. But with a moment like this quiet, raw after the storm, where you stop apologizing for feeling too much. She didn't flinch, and neither did I. I'm not fixed, but I'm here. And that feels like enough. I hope you enjoyed that. That was the chapter called A Day the Life of My Therapy Brain for my new book. Therapy is weird. Apparently, I'm the problem. This has been Brainverse Me. I am Joshua Erickson. Until next time.