T SOME POINT AFTER, I dunno, maybe the 12th time that the pandemic did not in fact “end”, my life got so compounded by stress – another kid on the way, dad in the hospital, cross-country move – that I felt almost blind. A tic, which began with occasional blinking, had devolved into a full-on facial contortion, all squinting and snorting and – ahem! – a socially awkward clearing of the throat. Strangers asked if I was okay, then shuddered. I wore sunglasses in the shade. The eye doctor deferred to Therapist No. 1, also known as my judgmental analyst and her weekly hour of couch-bound guilt, but rambling about my mother was no cure for a case of the blinks. For a second opinion, I turned to my second mental-health regular – aka Therapist No. 2, aka my psychiatrist, aka the overpriced drug dealer for my anxiety medication – then asked her to refer me to a third opinion. And a fourth. And a fifth. If you could expect a menu for your mouth, I figured, why not a buffet
