Sunday, June 10, 2018

Anything but the Mets

Anthony Bourdain's death was a blow on the bruise of Scott Hutchinson's. Both less than a month apart. Both had the signs, but many (myself included) thought they had gotten through the really bad stuff. I keep forgetting that depression does not just go away. It does not go away like putting Visine on red eyes. It can return at any time, they way a powerful wave at the beach can knock you into the undertow. The way you can be doing well one minute but a thought, a couple of bad thoughts can enter your head and flood it to the point where the body is incapacitated. It all sucks, so much, and plodding on while all this nonsense is happening around us becomes increasingly difficult.

Had two beers with friends last night and woke up feeling absolutely lousy today. Been trying to cut back on the alcohol because it's really not helping me tolerate the daily chaos the administration creates every day. Still paralyzed by all the grief though. Unable to focus on reading, what gets written down is garbage and confidence remains low.

A couple of weeks ago we said the heck with it and put my son in underwear. If he pees or shits in it we'd deal. So far he has not had one accident. His underwear has been dry. Been peeing in the toilet this whole time. He will with more frequency go into the bathroom unprompted. As for the poop though, it's a mystery sometimes. There have been instances he has used his hands to put the poop in the toilet. Sometimes he does not use this extra step, sometimes he does. It is a profound improvement.

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