Some days are hard. February is hard. March is hard.
I was standing in a tiny grocery store the other day, white-knuckling some chapstick in my coat pocket while I stared into a dairy case and coached myself to breathe, because I needed to pretend to the staff that I was shopping for cheese instead of panicking about them offering me assistance. I knew my mouth wouldn't operate properly if they did. It would open and close without breathing any air like a gawping fish when it is pulled out of water.