Breath
A few months ago, I tucked myself up in bed and made preparations to sleep. I turned to my husband to kiss him goodnight and was met with a response I didn’t particularly like: “I don’t want to know.”
He said it in a very firm, no-nonsense way, in a voice he uses when I am being totally ridiculous, which to be fair does happen sometimes. This was one of those times because trying to give him a kiss was a woman who had taped her mouth shut with surgical tape – not in a full-on “duct tape across the whole mouth because I’m being held hostage” way, just a little piece of tape the size of a Hitler moustache placed vertically in the centre of my mouth to keep it closed.
It was an idea I had taken from by journalist James Nestor. The book had already helped a friend’s anxiety by teaching him how to breathe properly through anxiety attacks, so I reasoned that I would use
