The long of it is: I binged on food, ferociously. I visited the break room every hour to replenish my sugar high on mini Snickers and frozen yogurt until a solid twenty pounds in eight weeks later. I took Adderall; I got a prescription for Adderall. I binge drank. I woke up one morning behind the wheel of my car somewhere near Will Rogers Park with a bleeding cut — not from a crash, thank God, but from hitting my head in the swimming pool of someone I could barely remember from hours prior before attempting to drive home. I had daily recurring nightmares that Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs — the guy who keeps women in a pit for a week before turning them into a human skin suit — was trying to break into my sublet in Santa Monica. I was mentally and chemically running as fast as I could away from myself, climbing and clawing my way out of this death pit, while counting down the days I had trapped myself in this job where I had to, had to, leave a good impression with the guy who would not stop sending me one line G-chats asking me to come into his office. I was checking the hell out of my life. The trauma didn’t stop that night in June, it hurt me over and over again.