August is my enemy. Tomorrow, it will be seven years that my mother has passed away. We had a complicated relationship, but in true movie fashion, just as we were working our way back to normal, she was gone. This was not unexpected, she was battling terminal illnesses (yes, plural.)

So now, here I sit, in a new house, in a new town, starting a new life of sorts. Seven years later and I still forget myself and reach for my phone to give her a call. That is the part that hurts the most. She always said that she just wanted to see me happy, and she never really got to see that. My mother was able to meet my wife (version 2) and my step-son, and she hung around long enough for us to be married. She adored my step-son, but by that time she was too far down the road to ruin to be able to truly enjoy being a grandmother. Then, as my wife held her hand, I watched her take her last breath. If I close my eyes, I am still in that hospital room. August is my enemy.

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Just a guy writing about how depression sucks.

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