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THE EIGHTH

Shit. Shit. Shit. I am late. Somehow everything went pear-shaped this morning, starting with sleeping through my alarm, and now I am ten minutes late for my appointment with Dr Grohl. The receptionist waves me straight through when I come jogging in, and I find myself collapsing into my favourite squishy armchair whilst simultaneously trying to apologise for my tardiness and catch my breath.

David hands me a glass of water and gives me a couple of minutes to collect myself before announcing that we ought to start the session. I feel so embarrassed about being late that I am particularly grouchy today. When David starts probing me about my freak-out in the bath—typical, Taylor must have called him—I find myself shutting down, unable to answer his questions as the images flood back. I don’t even realise that I am hyperventilating and in the middle of a panic attack until David is standing in front of me with a paper bag.

As I struggle to get my breathing under control, David offers a
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