There’s a reason why “seventh time’s a charm” is not a saying. And therapist number 7 is certainly no charm. Of course, I’ll give her a chance. I’ll keep going and I’ll keep trying but as soon as I’m passively-aggressively told to sort myself out, I switch off. Once again, when I get the crying under control (and stop reminding myself how I’m paying £65 an hour to cry when I can do that for free at home in my underwear), I’m told to try joining a club, reminded of the usefulness of exercise and the importance of eating healthily. I try to explain why this advice is not useful right now, how it makes me feel even more pathetic and pointless, how if I think too much about what’s “good for me”, I remember how I don’t care what’s good for me because what’s the point of eating healthily and exercising if you don’t want to exist? But therapist 7 thinks I’m being awkward and stubborn. I can see it in her face. So I clean up my face and I nod. I promise I’ll try.

But instead of perkily buying some trainers and heading for a spinning class, exhausted, I sleepwalk through work and hide in my bedroom as usual. Therapist 7 is not going to be happy.

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