It is late at night. I just spent a few minutes, maybe more than a few, crying for my lost stuffed animals from childhood. My last surviving stuffed animal is a bunny, named “Bunny”, that I have had since seventh grade. Bunny was intact until 2016 when much chaos ensued and he almost lost an arm and an ear, that are now sewed back on. It is way too metaphorical. I was recalling my first love, a small light blue elephant that moved his head from side to side to a tune. Probably my first memory was of this sweet nameless creature. There was my white gorilla with a sign around his neck that I cannot remember what it said. There was my baby seal, Straggles the hare, Nagus my large white bear who I slept with through high school and had until I was in my late twenties. There were countless others, named and unnamed, some I cannot remember. Why does this make me so sad? Steve rolled over in his sleep and said all adults wish they had their stuffed animals from childhood. If this is true why would our elders not guide us to keep track of our stuffed loved ones? I don’t believe we are really this in touch as humans, or maybe life is just too complicated and hard to pass on this advice with imperative. I also don’t believe that all people had as much of an attachment to their animals as I did.

So I let it go, checked in with instagram, texted a friend, and now I am listening to Rebel Heart by Madonna and getting over it. I am here writing these words and as a grown up human being, my writing is my new stuffed animal. All mature and grown up, my healing vessel, my journey, my medicine. I suppose music helps too.

My back has been out for a couple of days and for two days in a row I dealt with exhaustion so bad, I was catatonic and at one point nearly fainted. I have been dealing with depression lately, an injured knee, and the above. I am okay, though. I am traveling to Anacortes to see my psychiatrist on Thursday, and I believe it will go okay. When I saw Dr. Bob Wilson the other day, he thought I was doing impeccable. The truth is that I am. I am more than passing though passing is not the point. More and more, I see that we all are struggling. And I mean really struggling. Many of us do not slow down to realize this, some of us are fighting off addiction, some of us live with heart break, true loneliness, or disability and diagnosis. But my writing pulls me through, my meditation, my friends, my tarot, my dogs and cats, and God. Yes, I do believe in God. God may be seen as a drug to some people, but I take many drugs, a few serious mood stabalizers, anti-anxiety, antipsychotic, as well as vitamins and an herbal infusion. But God does not have side affects. He/She is a very clean drug. I take this drug responsibly and as needed as all my other drugs, and I am ever grateful for God in my life as I am my pharmaceuticals as well as my tea. Grateful. I am Grateful and Fine. Yes, Fine. Fine is great in all perspective. Grateful.