Doctor George Papakostas has some bad news for me. For the last half hour, he’s been guiding me through a catalogue of my discontent — the stalled writing projects and the weedy garden, the dwindling bank accounts and the difficulties of parenthood, the wife I see mostly in the moments before sleep or on our separate ways out the door, the typical plaint and worry and disappointment of a middle-aged, middle-class American life, which you wouldn’t bore your friends with, which you wouldn’t bore yourself with if you could avoid it and if this sweet man with his solicitous tone hadn’t …