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So, I’m in my therapist’s office, sunken into a burnt-red armchair.I tell him about my boy troubles and career worries. How my dad really needs it for the lawn, how I should just get it the next time I’m in the United States, how I don’t want to disappoint him, how it brings waves of discomfort every time I think about it.Coincidentally, around the same time the news broke, I was in a long-distance relationship with someone who went to school in Detroit.And my dad, devastated to have lost his miracle worker, saw an opportunity.

They were all irrational, of course, but I couldn’t escape them.

For whatever reason, it’s weed killer that’s on my mind, because it’s what makes me feel like there’s a rock lodged in my throat obstructing my ability to breathe.

I try to explain all of this to my therapist, a middle-aged man with a kind demeanor and a hippy-ish “let you be you” philosophy, when he asks the obvious stock-in-trade therapist question: “But does weed killer make you feel this way? * * * I’ve always been one of those people who worries irrationally, a severe, all-encompassing kind of worry.

Public speaking, large crowds, attending parties alone – these are all normal triggers for anxiety, but weed killer?

This issue seemed so benign, and yet it carried a surprising weight.

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