As I’ve said in the past, my old go-to in terms of coping with an impending day of misery was to imagine myself past it. To conjure how I’d feel in the future, perfect-tense, looking back on the dread moment.
It’s not a mechanism that lends itself well to the sixth of February. There is no magical perfect-tense date on which to perch and cast a wary eye back. In fact, there isn’t even really a dread moment, either. Every moment is the one I fear, and the sum of all the moments I spent in fear of so long before that.