Swift and Saddled (Rebel Blue Ranch, #2)

by Lyla Sage

You would never catch me going anywhere without at least a ten-minute buffer. Honestly, I’d prefer fifteen, but the coffee was a necessary stop.

But depression wasn’t a logical disease. It was an unexpected cold front in the middle of July. It was impossible to predict, which meant that I spent much of my time worrying about when the other shoe was going to drop. Not if, but when I would sink into another dark hole and have to decide to claw my way out of it. Even when I was happy, I was thinking about when I wouldn’t be.

That’s what I meant when I said that my brain didn’t feel like my own sometimes. It felt like it belonged to my mental illness instead.