Bad things happen in threes. What if they happen in fives, or eights? April is turning out quite the bitch, and not just because my mom's birthday falls on the 22nd. Life just keeps getting worse, more so when you say: "It can't get any worse, right?"
Depression is a funny thing. There are those that battle against it with pills and weekly sessions at, what I picture as, the stereotypical sit-on-the-couch kind of therapist and there are those that look at it like a passing period, an irritating few days that will eventually go away.
I can't help but feel guilty that I care more about my missing cat rather than the slow death my grandmother is incurring while dealing with violent episodes of dementia. I can honestly say that the past week has been spent weeping, wholeheartedly, about Simon's purr or the way he use to spray the side table before he went outside. Oh, sigh.
[ I am grateful for my...roommate Mr. Q for not letting me go outside without a bra ]
