To quote my myself, a line from a play from a character who is essentially myself: ‘I hate it when people are mad at me. It makes me feel like I’m not wearing pants.’ True story, character. Why is it that this far into adulthood, I still completely panic when I think that people are mad at me, and obsess over it until it’s somehow rectified? 99.9% of the time, the person is not mad at me, at all, but I somehow convince myself that they are, like middle school. I’m hypersensitive to tones of emails and texts, and somehow feel like relationships are way more fragile than they actually are. Also, why do I still call this sense of unrest ‘mad at me?’ In reality, grown up persons can take issue with each other, and talk said issue out, it’s not ‘being mad at.’ But me being super non-confrontational, I immediately retreat to this place of hotfaced blame and guilt. I think that what is really happening is it’s a manifestation of my own insecurity re: my quality as a friend, as a human being, reflecting back on me. And now, I will give myself $115 dollars for ten minutes of therapy-ing myself.