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Jessie. Oh. This piece. My debut novel launch twenty-three days ago and although my small successes are nothing/will be nothing compared to the critical acclaim and commercial heights you experienced with The Miniaturist, I am shaking as I come to the end of this essay, for you have written my heart. Depression and anxiety have been my companions for decades now—and I have chosen to address them with means other than pharmaceutical (diet, exercise, meditation)—but it's been a very, very long time since I've felt as close to the edge of the precipice as I have felt this past month, one of the most exciting and joyous of my life. A dream come true. A book launched into the world. Great reviews. Love and support flowing for all corners, strangers and loved ones alike. And here I am, feeling as though I am spinning apart, rolling from mania to inertia daily. On deadline with second novel and staring at the revisions in resentment and incapacity. Afraid, really, that I may be tipping over.
Equilibrium slowly returning, a bit each day, knowing the work will save me, the next page, the next book. But until I read your piece here, I had no idea it wasn't just me. I cannot thank you enough for speaking your truth. You touched me. Gratitude. Crying again, as I have so often these past weeks, but this time with relief.

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