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…