Until the story of the cop helping the autistic boy find his lost teddy bear. I lost it. Thought I was steel and could handle a feel good story. I was wrong.
Might indicate that I need a meeting with the psychologist. When I’m crying at commercials and empathizing and crying over bambi roadkill (omg, did it die alone? In pain? In the cold? arghhhhhh) all the while seeing a steady decline in my function. I’ll make the appointment. Tired of feeling like this. Not that she can magically fix Ian and my depression is going to disappear. I know that. This is as good as it gets. Today. It is quite literally downhill every single step we take going forward. And that’s fucking depressing – I don’t care who you are.
Enough. No more sadness. It’s date night.
In fact, I need to fluff and primp and spray myself with a luscious blend of florals for my man. Must not offend. I have some seducing to do.