The Therapist Says I’m Doing Great

The therapist says I’m doing great. She says it with her eyebrows up, like she’s impressed. I guess that’s progress. Last year I cried so hard I gave myself a nosebleed in her office and bled into my mask. We both pretended that was normal.

Now I make jokes about death instead. Growth.

Today I tell her I’ve been “vibing with my mortality.” She types something, nods.

I tell her I’ve stopped doomscrolling and started doom strolling—long walks, observing decay. Dead squirrels. Cracked sidewalks. A deflated birthday balloon tangled in power lines. The little things.

“You seem more regulated,” she says. “Grounded.”

I think about the frozen pizza I ate at 2 A.M. while sitting on the kitchen floor, then about how I cried because the cheese didn’t melt evenly.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

She asks me what’s changed. I tell her I’ve started journaling, which is technically true. I wrote “I AM TIRED” in block letters and drew a skeleton in a hammock.

She calls that “processing.”

She asks how I’m sleeping. I say “like the dead,” and she winces.

Sometimes I wake up with my contacts already in. Sometimes my phone has photos I don’t remember taking—pictures of my feet, of soup, of a gas station sign from twenty miles away. Once, it was a video of me brushing my hair and singing softly to no one.

She says that’s dissociation.

I say maybe it’s my other self. The one who doesn’t cry at commercials. The one who answers emails on time and eats enough protein. Maybe she tags in while I’m down for the count. Maybe she’s better at all this.

The therapist nods slowly, like it’s a metaphor. I don’t correct her.

By March, I start finding notes. Grocery lists I didn’t write:

• Chicken

• Broccoli

• Industrial strength drain cleaner

I hate broccoli.

I live alone.

One morning, I open the Notes app on my phone and find:

To Do:

• File taxes

• Water plants

• Fix the “me” problem

I don’t have plants.

I’m painfully aware of the “me” problem. I don’t need reminding.

The therapist says I’m probably just stressed. “A lot of people are dissociating right now,” she says. Like it’s a fad. Like posting your panic attacks on Instagram with a vintage filter. Fetch.

“I think I’m being replaced,” I say. “But gently.”

She says we all feel like that sometimes.

I nod. But I start staying awake.

Night four of no sleep, I hear someone in the kitchen. Humming. My voice, but steadier. I tiptoe out, holding a plunger like a weapon.

She’s scrambling eggs.

She looks just like me. Only… brighter.

She smiles. “I was wondering when you’d catch on.”

I don’t move.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says. “You were tired. I stepped in.”

I blink.

She serves the eggs on the China I forgot I had.

“You can rest now,” she says.

I open my mouth to argue—

But the eggs smell really good.