I’m on a sunlounger having a conversation with myself. So far, we’ve discussed the weather (delightful but a little cloudy), the book I’m struggling with (a Polish novel a friend bought me), and my anxiety about the emails I haven’t replied to (there are hundreds). This is supposed to be a holiday, one I’ve waited months for, and yet I couldn’t feel less relaxed.
If anything, having spent the last two days alone in a remote French suburb – a tactic employed to help me decompress before some friends join me – my prone-to-overthinking brain feels more wired than ever, desperate for something to cling to that will propel it into a deep yet strangely comforting downward spiral.
