No four words felt better when I was depressed than these, spoken by so many friends so often: This too shall pass.
It didn’t matter who said them: my mom, who I figured was lying; my friends, who I knew were being nice; or my therapist, who I suspected wanted to get paid. When my doctor explained that, even if I could never find the right medication combination or mixture of cognitive behavioral therapy and other techniques to abate the depression, that my symptoms would STILL not say forever, I breathed the only sigh of relief I had since the first panic attack sent me into a tailspin.
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