When I was little, I carried around a smiley face toy I got from a quarter machine in a grocery store. It had a smooth plastic body with the classic yellow smiling sphere, as well as arms and legs with white-gloved hands and little white sneakers. Upon numerous present-day Google searches, I still don’t know what these toys are actually called, but I named mine Smiley Guy, and for all intents and purposes, he was my first emotional support figure.
Cute anecdotes aside, the real metaphor is: I have clutched at an enduring token of hope for as long as I can remember.
Despite this, I have still found myself at the perils of panic attacks, debilitated by depressive episodes — and now, like many other “chatty and overachieving” women…
