Don’t feed Fred

Fred is a big bastard of a dog.

He’s strong as all hell. After spending a lot of time being carted belong behind him and scraping my knees and elbows on the tarmac, we’ve reached a tentative detente.

Right now, we’re walking side by side.

Sometimes, he’ll get ahead of me and sometimes he’ll lag behind, but as we stuck with each other for now, I’m trying to make the best of it.

Still, I think I am more of a cat person.

Depression is like the tides, it ebbs and flows.

Sometimes, I can almost forget it’s there and then I start obsessing about things I cannot change.

I start feeding Fred.

Little tidbits on the side and, if not careful, the whole damn plate. It’s hard to ignore him slavering at my side.

This time it was the state of the world I brought my children into and how selfish I was (and am) to put them in such a harsh and horrible world.

What if they have to go to war, what if they get hurt, what if I can’t afford food and lost my house?

What if there was a zombie uprising?

How would I keep them safe?

Could they climb the walls?

Should I stockpile food?

It’s not like zombies are beating down the door, but I managed to work myself up into a panic before I remembered my mantra.

Don’t feed Fred.

Turn the music up on the radio.

Find something to keep myself busy.

Read a book.

Just don’t give in to puppy dog eyes.

“When days are dark, friends are few”.

The bumper sticker may be true, but the ones who stick by you are the best you’ll ever have.

Thanks for the flowers.

Thanks for the hug when I was feeling low.

Thanks for making me go out and face the world.

Thanks for not letting me dig a deeper pit and hide in it.

Thanks for not telling me what to do or how to feel better.

Thanks for telling me I can get through this, that I am strong enough.

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