Can’t See the Forest for the Waves

I’ve been very stressed of late and I’m a little concerned I might be retreating too much into fantasy. How much is too much? How far is too far? My psych accuses me of staying stressed because I overanalyze every rock of the boat; that not all waves are  indicative of a storm.

But. some. are.

This may be nothing, I say, preparing to email my therapist, but I’m currently juggling an increasingly intricate imaginary subplot of dating a celebrity, and I’ve recently undergone the task of changing my handwriting. The new pattern is completely different from the old one. I just decided one day that the former wasn’t as pretty. The numbers have been easier to get a handle on than the letters, though I am convinced I will master them both. But I have no gauge of what’s normal reasonable, and my healthy response meter is on the fritz.

Am I changing my handwriting because it’s fun, and the visual creature that I am enjoys seeing a flowier font? Or… am I, on some level, fashioning a new identity with which to stalk and kidnap Justin Timberlake?

Sigh. I don’t think flowier is even a word. I’ll email my therapist now.