This morning started gently. No ambush, no flying paws, no kitten parkour off my ribcage. Just air kisses and warmth from Whiskey Kitty. Soft fur. Slow blinks. The kind of calm that feels earned. It was one of those rare mornings where the world doesn’t demand anything immediately, it just sits beside you and breathes.
Then reality clocked in.
We headed to the psychiatrist for a routine visit, though nothing feels routine when paperwork meets the justice system. I need a letter from him confirming that I’m under psychiatric care. Simple on paper, complicated in tone. He hesitated. He was cautious. I told him that I’d smoked a little pot a few weeks ago, as if the universe needed another asterisk attached to my name.
There are holes in my defense. That’s the phrase that kept echoing.
The doctor finally said he could write a simple letter. That’s all I wanted in the first place. Just confirmation of treatment for the public defender. No autobiography. No footnotes. No moral commentary. Just the facts. Still, there’s that lingering worry about what gets included and what doesn’t. He knows I’m staying with my mother, which technically violates things and could open new doors I’d rather keep locked. I don’t know if he’ll mention it. The waiting is its own kind of noise.
This whole situation is stressful. Not the jittery, clawing stress that sends you hunting for a cigarette. That urge has quieted. This is a deeper stress. The kind that doesn’t push you toward bad habits, but instead toward hope. Or prayer.
Which is strange, because I’m an atheist.
Still, today I found myself wanting to pray. Not performative prayer, not bargaining prayer. Just that quiet internal plea that everything somehow lands where it should. For an atheist, that’s saying something.
The closest I came to smoking was sitting in the car outside a smoke shop while my mom made an appointment at the beautician. The sign was right there. Familiar. Almost nostalgic. But there was no pull. No argument. No voice telling me it would help. Just a building I didn’t need to enter anymore.
That surprised me.
Stress came and went. Temptation barely showed up. Whiskey Kitty was waiting at home, unchanged, unimpressed by legal systems or medical letters. Just a warm reminder that peace still exists in small, breathing forms.
Day 110.
No smoking.
A lot of uncertainty.
A strange kind of faith.
I got this. 🐾
by D
by Dan and Bonkers
SUPPORT MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS TODAY!!!
