One of Mitch’s fish died today. The pretty angel fish one. Now, the death of a pet is always a sad occasion and maybe I’ve gone through so many pet fish in my lifetime that I’ve become desensitised. But Mitch isn’t just sad. He’s devastated. 

He called me this morning in floods of tears and told me that it was all his fault and that the poor  fish put its life in his hands and it was his responsibility and he blew it. It sounds comical but it’s not. It is these kinds of situations that can trigger a week-long descent into depression. 

I’m flooded in at the moment so I’m not able to go and visit him and it’s so hard to comfort him on the phone. I honestly had no idea what to say. I’m hopeless at this kind of thing. So I’m worrying about him sitting at home and wallowing. I feel like, that at the same time as comforting him, I should inject a sense of reason into the whole ordeal: fish don’t last that long, they die, it happens. But I can’t say that because he obviously felt a great attachment to this fish and feels duly responsible.

What do I do?! This is another one of those situations that, in the whole scheme of things, is trivial but he sees things differently. How’s he going to get through what life throws at him if he can’t handle little situations like this? 

Love, Steph.