So, lets just start this blog entry with a disclaimer, no this is not me finally coming to terms with the fact that 10 years from now I will be that cat lady who lives next door to you. This is simply just a sweet little ditty about how my kitten helped me get help with my depression.
Let’s set the scene, it’s late August, my work had just recently had unexpected mass layoffs and I was just a sad little blanket burrito that hadn’t moved in days. I felt hopeless and sad, like my life plans were falling around me, like even though I hadn’t even turned 23 my future was a dark cloud of uncertainty and doubt. I know, I know I’m sure everyone feels this way in their early twenties…like they can’t possibly cope with everything that’s going on around them and nothing will make sense ever. But I felt awful, crying breaks with early morning tea, sweat pants for days on end, mid afternoon depression naps that I never wanted to wake from. I’m going to try and cut the worst of it out because my goal is not to be a Debbie Downer but to bring light to the fact that a little jet black kitten made things a little bit easier.
So lets bring it back, it’s late August, my work had just recently had unexpected mass layoffs and I finally decided to emerge from ‘Sad Blanket Burrito’ at the insistence of my closest friend. She was moving, she needed help, she had two little black kittens, and could only bring one to her new apartment. Because I am a hero (Spiderman is in awe of my heroics) I take this little kitten home.
Now, I haven’t been around a kitten since my cat I’ve had since I was 9 was one and I forgot that they are disastrous little monsters who climb up curtains and meow for fun at 4 am. I forgot that that now it’s not always going to like those cute cat videos, little cute snapshots that depict a perfect angel.
To be completely honesty I don’t think I was the right person for the job at first, little crying jags and wanting to be asleep forever were still a constant but I was lonely and sad and wanted something cute to love me unconditionally. But it started getting a little bit easier, a day, an hour, a minute at a time. I started going to be bed at normal hours instead of binge watching YouTube videos for hours on end but just so my cat didn’t wake me up at a godawful time because she wanted to have a meowing contest with herself. Soon came the switch from constant comfy too big sweatpants to actual jeans so I could properly play with her without my pants falling around my ankles every few minutes. Soon came the absence of fear and panic of going out in public so I could take her to the vet. Soon came the me finally calling up my doctor and admitting something was wrong. Soon came the small bubbling of “hey it might actually be okay in the long run.”
Now I can never ever say I’m always going to be happy, I can’t say that my depression won’t come back again like it did when I was 14, 17, and 22, but I can say that my little pain-in-the-ass black cat did let me see that not everything is horrible and there is a reason to wake up in the morning.
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