My mom came by to drop off some groceries Thursday afternoon. I don't drive, and I'm still convinced she think of me as a "starving" college student. Not that I'd pass as starving in a pitch black room.
We were talking, and I was on the edge of this creeping bit of weird headspace that came from a mix of my own wonky brain chemistry, fucked up sinuses, and humid weather had my back in spasms. I pointed out that now would be the perfect time for her to help me find a doctor, being as I had managed to stumble through Finals and had plenty of free time while I got things cleaned and boxed to prepare to move in with her.
See, she lost her husband late last year from stage four cirrhosis. And the general consensus was that between the depression she had been fighting and my own flaky brainmeats, it might be a good idea for us to keep an eye on each other. After describing how bad I'd been feeling lately, she made it a point to say that she'd be locking up her guns. And with the avid hunting her and Walker engaged in, they had quite a few. I laughed and told her that if I ever did kill myself, I'd rather use a knife.
Oddly enough,I had intended this to be reassuring.