What ailed me wasn’t some mild form of free-floating election blues. No. This election and its coverage consumed me. It changed me physiologically. I’d watch and read the news and grind my teeth. I’d squeeze my hair. I’d drop my head into Lilly’s belly and refuse to budge despite her literally sharp protests. Even my favorite TV commentator, Van Jones, couldn’t make it better, and he is awesome.

Mario upped the anti-anxiety meds Ativan and Xanax, and added a short-term dose of the antidepressant Lexapro, and I continued to talk him and vent. A lot. I became artificially calmer and less depressed, but I was still politically possessed.

The aftermath of each debate, and then that appalling Al Smith dinner, sent me into psychic paroxysms. I’d spend every last of my 100 weekly therapeutic minutes in a Munchian position: that solitary, abstracted being, screaming alone on a lonely bridge.

Certain words, phrases and names sent me into Pavlovian freakouts: rigged, temperament, locker room, sue, access, Hollywood, “Access Hollywood,” polls, down-ballot, Kellyanne, Billy, Rudy.