Owning a cat is one of the best decisions a mentally ill person can make. Whether it’s depression, bipolar, schizophrenia; anything really. This isn’t to say that I’m one of those weird cat ladies. My cat is not my only friend, nor is he a replacement for a man in my life. I have plenty of friends and a loving husband. I don’t buy sweaters for my cat or wear cat themed jewelry. But honestly there is times where you want a silent friend. An organism that is incapable of wrapping its tongue around the syllables of human speech. He cannot grimace in judgment, nor can he mock your pain. He can only purr and mew as he acts his part in your life as a biological stress ball. On days when I cannot bear to see another person, when my anxiety boils and sinners beneath my grey matter, the cat is my Xanax. I wrap my fingers in his fur and he bats at my face and nothing seems quite as bad. I mean, this cat does nothing but sleep and poop and he’s happy. I least I have a drivers license. AT LEAST I CAN USE THUMBS! Get a job, you bum.