I'm sitting at a wooden table, in a room with yellow walls, to talk about my divorce. I'm not actually married yet.
"What do you want to focus our session on today?"
Um, let's see, where TF do I even begin? My nails are uneven and bitten, my phone is permanently attached to my hand, and I haven't slept more than four hours straight in months. On paper, it
looks like I have my shit together. I have a good job at a magazine; I'm engaged; my Instagram is a probably annoyingly curated mix of happy hour prosecco, recycled Tulum yoga shots from my last vacation, and marathon training (#SeenOnMyRun). But on the inside: I'm feeling overworked, anxious, completely distracted, and scared that my marriage that hasn't even started yet is going to end in divorce like my parents' did.
Oh, and just two weeks ago, I found out my ex—you know,
the ex, the one you have the Worst Breakup Ever with and never fully recover—now works right off the same subway stop as me, and the constant unpredictable and painful run-ins with him are making me nauseated.
I'm falling apart. In a burnt-earth-tone cotton top, her thick brunette hair pulled back out of her face, a few strands escaping, the woman I've come to see starts shuffling a worn deck of Rider-Waite tarot cards, spreading them out on the table. Smoke from a nearby smudge stick wafts through the room. I look down at symbolic images I recognize: Knight of Swords, Chariot, King and Queen of Pentacles.
Here we go. READ ON 
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