It's starting already. Fall is coming. Depression (I typed desperation first. Hello, Dr. Freud?). It is creeping in along with the crisp evening air and the Halloween displays at Target. I never liked September because of all the back to school bullshit, not to mention the actual act of going back to school. Now September means waiting for the other shoe to drop. Who will say it first? My sister? Me? My dad himself? "Dad seems a little down," we say. September is when is starts. It's the month my mom started to get really sick 10 years ago. Ten Septembers. Ten times I have started worrying, waiting. Ten times I have made a point to increase the phone calls and visits. Ten times I have felt the pain that comes with the Fall. Ten times I have wished that it would be January already, so we could all give a sigh and say, "Dad seems to be doing great, huh?" Ten years of thanking the antidepressant gods for their chemicaly goodness. Guess it's time for a double dose.
Dad called Sunday. Said he was having a blue weekend. He was hoping to stave it off with a round of golf. And promissed he was taking his meds. I hate September.