It started a while back, but I didn't notice.

Or maybe I did, but decided not to worry about it.

I've always been an anxious person.

When I was a kid, my doctor told me I had an abnormally large

amygdala, or the doctor told my mom that because I was a kid. It doesn't matter.

Anyway, I've always been the type that imagines something lurking in the empty room or tells the other elementary

school as a ghost lives in the bathroom.

So at some point, I think around 16, I decided to stop caring about anything.

I was an anxiety alcoholic and I needed to get sober.

If I worried about locking my car at night, I worried about a demon living in my attic,

and that my neighbors might be stealing my Wi-Fi and mail and about the Yellowstone Supervolcano.

So, just like an addict, I needed to abstain.

I just can't worry about my car being locked or paying a suspicious overage charge.

I need to stay clean.

The trade-offs are nothing compared to the week my life would be otherwise.

But it's amazing the things you won't worry about when you've conditioned yourself to live this way.

So keep in mind that when I say this all started when Mark Whitley moved in, it might have been a whole lot earlier.

I live alone in a three bedroom house, the same one I grew up in.

When I was 18, my parents moved from the master into

lot 45-R in St Joseph's Cemetery due to a drunk driver, specifically my father.

All of my girlfriends and therapists agree that staying in the house was not a healthy decision, but

rental prices are ridiculous right now and selling the thing doesn't feel right.

...