Open your picture folders…find a random “February” picture from a past year and tell a story.
Since obedience is not my strong suit (much to the dismay of The Mister), I put a June Freaking Cleaver spin on the prompt.
This picture is NOT from February. Even if I didn't know when it was taken, I would almost bet that it was not taken in February.
February sucks. Even though it is the shortest month for the rest of you humans inhabiting the planet (and those currently working on the International Space Station), February has, since 2002, been a long, arduous journey ending in madness for us. We have had Februarys without innocent smiles, without much laughter (unless it was of the maniacal variety).
February is The Boy's Lost Weekend, the time when his Bipolar disorder is in full swing. When he was first diagnosed at age six, and in first grade, he had his first mental hospital admission on February 11. The following year? February 11.
Let's just all agree that Bipolar disorder can be cyclical, ok? Out of his seven hospital admissions, five of them were due to some aberration in behavior or mood that was taking place in February.
He missed Valentine's parties at school three different years. He wanted to jump out of windows, or out of moving cars. In third grade, he wrote all of his spelling sentences one week about ways to kill himself.
He's been locked up, drugged to zombie status before visitation, and kept sleep-deprived to allow an EEG to check for seizure activity. New trials of medications caused him to gain seventeen (17) pounds in a single February; other medications caused hand tremors so severe he couldn't eat a Slush Puppy/Icee with the straw/scoop without dumping all of it down his shirt.
February has been like a ride to Hell in a Yugo...on roads with railroad tracks and potholes.
And just when I think I can't survive another dark, cold February, I look at this picture...
or this one: