Cats in Pants (Trigger Warning)

William decided the best place to curl up and rest today was in my Pants. I was wearing them at the time. This is my concequence for preferring my clothing be loose. If I wear pants they must be two sizes too large and soft. I was sitting in a comfortable position, that would probably look weird if that sort of thing mattered and my arms just wouldn’t hold his fifteen pounds. He promptly curled up to take a nap, which caused me to laugh for half an hour, even though the end result was that my cat pantsed me. He reminded me that I need to laugh more. I usually laugh once a day but for the last few weeks I have fought depression.

William Shakespurr curled up in my pants, he is black and white. The pants are black velvet.

William Shakespurr curled up in my pants, he is black and white. The pants are black velvet.

The post I recently wrote about my worst secret should’ve left me reeling. Past experience tells me that addressing that issue in anyway debilitates me for weeks. I think I was finally ready. That readiness doesn’t  make writing any easier on the topic of healing. My distractions and triggers are still persistently here.

I am not sure what left me ready to write that post. I am not sure it was readiness so much as a desperate need to communicate the pain. I was telegraphing communications, and the conflicts I was facing because of my silence were too great. Perhaps it was the need to survive. I still cannot say the words that make up the events outloud.

A part of that is required censorship by my abuser. The threats of violence echo in my mind even when I type. He is dead but the fear isn’t. A part of it is the censorship that is required to protect my mother and siblings who need to be protected. Why do I feel they are so vulnerable? They have never left the battles behind. I see them as more haunted, more sensitive, and more fragile. This is partly because of the very messages they gave in response to my first attempts to address the abuse.

Another part of this is a physical memory that comes forward as part of my PTSD. Those hands on my throat, they make the words vanish. The third part is my fear of being judged. I am not sure how rape is ever the fault of an eight year old child or any other child or even adult man or woman but that fear is there. The fear of being told you deserved it.

There is so much poison in this world. It took me years to learn to hug, to smile. Now hugging is unbearably painful. I feel the loss of those hugs greatly. Still, the strangest things happen and the smallest reason to laugh is good enough. I can laugh at my cat in my pants. I can take pictures of my cat in my pants. That is a huge difference in who I used to be.

My default expression is a smile. I am always smiling, unless I need to cry or if anger and sorrow are what I really feel. I no longer wear a mask to hide who I am. I see the world in music and hear it in color. I am free. I hope you enjoy seeing my cat in pants.

Find your own moment with a cat in pants, with anything to smile over. Maybe it will be your sleeping child, maybe it will be a butterfly on a newly blossomed spring flower. Maybe it will be slapstick comedy. As I write this, I am watching my two cats bathe one another. It is a sweetness that makes my smile grow.

A smile is like a flower. It must be fed happiness, watered with tears of sorrow, ferilized with life, and tended. A smile is a flower that can always be in blossom.

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