I'm (Not) Fine

The definition of “fine” can change. All through my life fine meant I was fine. Nothing was wrong, my day was normal. Fine. Since the passing of my cat fine has taken on a different meaning.

Fine means “I’m as good as can be expected.” No, I’m not okay but I’m surviving. I’m aware of my depression lurking one wrong comment under the surface. Quiet moments are hard moments because they’re too quiet, I don’t have a warm bundle on my lap purring away. Homework is hard because I don’t have my writing buddy on my feet, keeping my toes warm and occasionally nosing my pen to remind me that he's there and a chin scratch would be appreciated. Studying is hard because he’s not on my lap, looking up and rubbing his cheek against my textbook. Thinking about being pregnant is hard because it reminds me that he won’t tell me when it’s happened by sleeping on my belly every night and he won’t be snuggling our baby. That stupid ball of fur permeated every aspect of my life, so when I say I’m fine without him I’m not fine like I used to be, I’m as fine as can be expected after losing my best friend, after losing my fur baby. No, I’m not really fine. I’m not okay. I’m just surviving right now. And that’s fine.