She prefers to tell a story rather than mechanically answer a question. The segue from whale watching to splashing around in a baby pool is part of the particular charm of talking to Seyfried. Knowing that a lot of my fears are not reality-based really helps.” As I get older, the compulsive thoughts and fears have diminished a lot. I had an MRI, and the neurologist referred me to a psychiatrist. I had pretty bad health anxiety that came from the OCD and thought I had a tumor in my brain. Why do you need to prove it? If you can treat it, you treat it. ![]() You don’t see the mental illness: It’s not a mass it’s not a cyst. It should be taken as seriously as anything else. And what are you fighting against? Just the stigma of using a tool? A mental illness is a thing that people cast in a different category, but I don’t think it is. Whether it’s placebo or not, I don’t want to risk it. I don’t see the point of getting off of it. I’ve been on it since I was 19, so 11 years. I’m on Lexapro, and I’ll never get off of it. You could so easily burn down something if you leave the stove on. Also, I always worry about people and how they use stoves. I put in a bathroom and a little kitchenette, but no stove I want people to eat meals in the house. I just finished renovating one of the barns for guests. Q: Have you done a lot of work on your place? A: “I bought the house in 2013, and then I had it redone. The following exchange, for reasons that will become abundantly clear, is better left in her own words. She’s wearing denim shorts, Birkenstocks, and a black T-shirt that says “Wakeman Basketball.” Lovely, but the opposite of exotic. Seyfried drives up on the dot in a black Toyota SUV. A table on the porch outside is a bit more private and quiet, though the rural peace and birdsong are regularly overwhelmed by the roar of big rigs, tanker trucks, and all manner of farm equipment thundering over Route 209 and down the valley. We’re meeting at a no-frills roadside café filled with boisterous local folks enjoying the lunchtime rush. This is one of the places that the actress Amanda Seyfried calls home. Listed as a “noxious weed” by the United States Department of Agriculture, it is, to many eyes, including my own, an all-American beauty: deceptively hardy, slightly wild, homespun. And everywhere you look-along the roadsides, in the pastures and abandoned lots-you see acres of the wildflower Queen Anne’s lace, its slender stalks capped with whorls of antique white and a tiny red dot in the middle, where, the story goes, a needle pricked Her Royal Highness at her sewing table. Today, the deep green hills and sleepy hollows are dotted with aboveground pools, tractor-tire flower planters, whirligigs, and wind chimes.
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