As I haul a pile of jeans two sizes bigger than what I used to wear into the dressing room, I try not to feel sad about the weight I’ve gained. It feels too stupid to be sad about. I walk by a row of supersoft T-shirts that are on sale and grab a handful. I get some new underwear and bras as well. I’ve been squeezing my newly voluptuous tits into my 34B bras, and it’s getting obscene. I look at myself in the pallid light of the dressing room, which seemingly illuminates every pore of my tired skin. My hair looks like a neglected animal.

I leave with a bagful of clothes, and my plan is to go to the gym. I’m dressed for it, since my gym clothes are all that still fit me, and I’m actually going to go today.

I get in the car with every intention of heading to the mildly depressing big-box gym by my parents’ house. I fucking hate that gym. Last week, a pudgy trainer sidled up to me and gave me some unsolicited (and incorrect) advice on squats in an attempt, I assume, to try to sell me one of the personal training packages they push on new members. It was all I could do not to punch him. But I’m supposed to be exercising regularly. It’s supposed to help.

Instead of driving to the gym, however, I find myself on a route so familiar I’m practically on autopilot. The airport. I park and head to arrivals, like I’m picking someone up. This series of irrational actions gives me an odd thrill. Am I finally losing it? I’ve spent days—weeks, probably—of my life in airports all over the world, but I’ve never been as fascinated as I suddenly am by this ordinary terminal.

My therapist, Gena, has been working with me on a technique borrowed from yoga that she refers to as staying in “the witness mind.” She encourages me to try to observe my feelings without judging them so as to avoid getting caught up in self-loathing and blame. But now I feel like I’ve somehow slipped from my body and am watching from above. I don’t think this is what Gena meant. I wonder idly if I am suffering a psychotic break. People are staring at me, but it’s not (necessarily) because I look any more deranged than usual. The white noise of whispers that fills a room when I walk in has become so constant that I hear it even when I’m alone.