2025 Sucks

2025 sucks.

It actually started great—the publication of I Love That Girl was January 1, 2025— then the year pretty much went downhill from there.

It all began on January 10th with the death of my beloved Tuxedo kitty, Zoe, who fought kidney disease valiantly for three years. To add insult to injury, that same day I was the third family member to test positive for the flu… and we had to miss a very important family wedding.

The suckiness continued with the horrifying inauguration of Anus Tangerineus on January 24th, the effects of which felt like a severe case of Montezuma’s Revenge.

There was a brief pause in the horribleness (only on the personal front, you all know how the wider world was doing à la Anus Tangerineus). Some good things actually happened: my husband, who was laid off on October 7th, 2024, started a new job on April 7th, and my struggles with perimenopause eased up thanks to hormone replacement therapy (HRT), and my chronic back pain was improving thanks to weekly chiropractor visits. My two daughters were doing well, finishing their respective junior years—one in high school and the other in college. And, I was also excited for the release of my second book with a new publisher! The summer started fantastically; we traveled, and the kids enjoyed their work and camp experiences.

However, on July 30th, our other cat, Sir Woodward “Woody,” fell seriously ill and passed away within three days. The grief was shrouded in shock, contrasting sharply with Zoe’s expected and peaceful passing. Struggling to cope with this sudden loss (and still grieving Zoe), we found ourselves at a local shelter three weeks later, where we unexpectedly fell in love with a 22-pound five-year-old cat the shelter named “Lover Boy” because of his unabashed affection; he indiscriminately rubbed against all visitors’ legs and headbutted anyone for attention.

We had a good month with Lover Boy (aka Leon), but then he began scratching his skin until it bled, barely eating or walking. A vet visit proved so stressful for him that they couldn’t effectively treat him due to his scratching and biting. This led to a trip to the animal hospital, where they had the necessary medications to sedate our anxious guy. That visit cost us around $3,000, and when we returned home, he seemed worse off than before. All of September was spent in uncertainty about whether he would make it.

Then, on October 14th, my husband was laid off again—one year and one week after the first time. To make matters worse, my period returned after a 122-day hiatus. If you’ve experienced perimenopause or know someone who has, you’ll understand that I felt anything but relief; instead, I felt the opposite.

Oh, and that back pain. It returned.

At the same time, we decided we needed to spend less time on screens (a common and futile goal for all of us, right?), so we picked up two (kind of ) self-help books that had been sitting on my bedside table. These books are relatively short and don’t follow a plot, which makes them easy to read together. We’ve had enough couples counseling to know that reading to your spouse can strengthen your bond (and, as a couples counselor, I’ve prescribed it to many of my clients).

Our “book club of two” is currently reading:

- On Tyranny
- When Bad Things Happen to Good People

Our bedtime stories aren’t exactly soothing our souls, but pretending everything is fine feels worse. The effects of self-gaslighting include confusion and anxiety—think of “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

Now, here we are on November 2nd, 2025. My husband is once again pounding the proverbial pavement in search of work. However, the message he’s receiving from Corporate America is that he’s too old—51 is now considered too old for even a man. My first reaction was, “Welcome to what women have been battling since time began.”

On a brighter note (although I dislike that phrase), Leon is doing much better thanks to a new diet and some prednisone. He is sitting beside me now, sleeping with a bandana tied around his neck because he still suffers from a bit of anxiety that manifests in itching his neck (I can relate, buddy, to both the itching and the anxiety). Despite this, he remains affectionate and wonderful.

Oh, and the kids are alright, which helps ease my mind.

As I wrap up this post, I want to say: “Fuck you, 2025. Fuck you.”