Bad Romance

I woke up from my nap today literally singing Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. I had been dreaming strange things, but nothing frightening or bad. My brain is still processing the death of my exhusband and this song came out just as I was having my awakening after surviving the horrors he put me through. For the last few years it has been a comfort to me in ways, because I do not live down to the lyrics. The catchy tune was there to be a stress reliever when I needed it. It was my anthem to not return to the abuse, to not trust his platitudes through my door, and that the fears that I felt were valid. It was the musical reminder that I had survived.

I have been thinking today about all that I have survived. I cannot list it because my hand, recently injured but healing, won’t last that long and while my health has never recovered from his abuses and never will my mind has. Without knowing he was dead I had begun to push myself, because I decided to live. I went to the mall we used to frequent. It was his favorite place and I needed things. Instead of just getting what I needed and bolting I went through the entire mall and had fun with it with my carer. I even went into the bookstore. We made a day of challenging my PTSD while rewarding the impulse. I found things I would have bought online for four times as much, which for me is a reward. Apparently frugality is all I need? Frugality and dolls.

In those struggles and the darkest moments when I couldn’t even go out my own front door, I found my willingness to live. I was never willing to let him imprison me in this home because of fear. It wasn’t about him winning, but it was about being alive. I felt free of him before I knew he died and the freedom feels all the sweeter because I overcame those emotional things that I could. I will never sleep with my door unchained or unlocked, but I will go out more. Being afraid is exhausting.

I may date again, I may not. All I know is that the end of that last Bad Romance merits a playing of the song one more time. I am trying to remember why I fell for him and I can. That easy charm, saying the things I needed to hear on an emotional level and even the cats liking him. I wonder where that man went, but even him I do not mourn. I find myself mourning for his children. Not because of their father dying but because of the pain I know is in their lives. In the end though, it is a party at my house. Ra ra ra!

The Return of the Ghost I Was

I have haunted this blog since I stopped posting. Every day my fingers hovered over the keys but I couldn’t write without reprisals and my life being endangered. My voice was silenced. I became an echoing refrain in my own mind. I would write the words in my head and try to put away the desire. This was true of even my fiction work. I couldn’t publish anything under my name without my exhusband trying to murder me.

His stalking me is well documented in parts of this blog, even if most of those posts were hidden as I learned safety. I have had immense support from you, and I know some of you I couldn’t contact worried. Well, Textual Fury is back because my exhusband is dead. I do have mixed feelings but I am finding that the sad ones are for me. No one who knew thought to contact me and go “Yeah he is dead.” Which I can understand. That would require them to not be enabling his abuse, it would require them to not blame me. He blamed me, and on his last attempt on my life made it perfectly clear that I had to die so he could commit suicide.

I am obviously not dead.

In the last while I tried to blog under new names, I tried to push through. It didn’t work. I was a mute not just by choice but out of an instinct for self preservation. I have approved all pending comments, including his threatening one that wasn’t deleted. Its there for posterity. A permanent (as permanent as anything is on the internet) reminder of my survival. He died. I lived. I never expected to out last him. His body was healthy. Mine? Its MY body, with its well documented fragility, constant illness and general shorter than average life expectancy.

I no longer have to haunt my litany spot. I can simply write. Hello again, old friends.

 

Some of my adventures in the last while? Two car accidents, internal bleeding not yet resolved but not necessarily life threatening (its been around for a while now, and I actually feel pretty good despite that), Sprite needed surgery and nearly died on me from a mega abscess, I started collating my poems into a book, my art will be a part of an exhibition in Australia, The Dark Knight Rises was pretty danged awesome, my monster high collection is great and brings me joy, and my shy cat Sylvani is mostly a normal cat who jumps like popped corn. I even have a great carer. Not a good one, not a failgiver. A GREAT caregiver.

In short even before I knew he was dead my life had reached a critical point of happiness which I had once imagined as a child. My life is nothing like the actual imagined life, but I think it is far better. Sure it would be great to have my own pony and dogsled team (yes both on one sled) but I sit in my humble home with what feels like the world at my feet. I do not promise regular blogs but the turmoil of the world effects me. There is so much in this world that needs to be observed. So much to be experienced and I cannot NOT write.

The Allure of Jesus Christ (Trigger Warning)

I understand a part of Christianity that has eluded me for some time. The revelation came in the most sacred place in my house. On the potty. Toilets are wonderful for epiphanies. It’s as if letting out all of the shit and piss inside you gives you room for grand ideas or understanding. The tone of this paragraph alone should let you all know I am not quite up to my usual standard of gleaming joy despite all the depraved nonesense in the world at the moment. I think that’s okay.

I am sad over Rose again, and another friend of mine was attacked in her home. She called me and the police, and as the attacker, who most likely is the rare stranger rapist as her neighborhood which is the nicer one in her home town, has had a rapist murderer gallivanting about lately… well as he comes for her she calls me and asks me how to seriously injure him without killing him.

The beast was unleashed. It worried me, frankly because I wanted to have her kill him. I did not do so, at least unless she didn’t follow my directions correctly but the intent to kill was not there and the police are sure he will be fine. Potentially paralysed but a walker to the throat vs him raping and killing a friend? He deserves what he gets.

Yet, I entered a two hour period of extreme darkness. I don’t like feeling that way and I haven’t for years. Not even dealing with Him, aka ex stalker scary ahh, did that. I got dark, I got depressed but not on the edge where for a few hours I fantasized about ways to kill a man with a walker anally. Lets just say my mind has it’s dim corners and some that are pitch black and the lights went out. I am fine again. M the friend of awesomeness helped me sort it out but there I was, in my dark space.

The dark space isn’t anger, it’s fear, terror, and a certain helplessness. I cannot change that Rose was most likely murdered by her greedy and ungrateful children. I cannot change that a man broke into a friend’s home and attacked her. I can however say I protected one, and i could not protect Rose. I wish I could.

So my revelation is this, I had the thought, ‘If I could protect every innocent person, deserving person, and purge the world of people like Him, Steve, and the latest jackass that came to my attention I would die the most horrible death imaginable.’

So this is the allure of Christianity. It is that supposedly someone did just that. Except of course it is clear to me that their sacrifice failed. If Christ indeed existed. Since men wrote the book, about a man, and… it’s all… lies. I understand that the moral of Christianity is not the one they intend. They intend that we should all want this, to die for others and to all be great people. It just didn’t work out that way.

I still would die for my friends, family, and most everyone in the world if it was the only way to make things better. It isn’t so I am obviously not going to go and get boiled and skinned alive or something. Martrying hasn’t worked for millennia.

The thing is… I did protect my friend. I couldn’t reach for the phone and save her but I empowered her with my knowledge of how to seriously injure and or kill people, and quickly enough that she defended herself. A seriously disabled person took out the rapist murderer, not one of the able bodied rich whining bitches who had mace, tasers and food. A person spat upon by society.

I know my darkness has a purpose, because I have given it one. It’s there to remind me why I don’t want kids, who I could be easily without choosing consciously to live, and it is there to remind me of why I hate my mother. She and my father worked hard to twist me up into a piece of garbage. I chose to be something more than feces that marrs the brilliance humanity has to offer.

So I am stressed. I am sad. I am also moving forward. My paratransit interview is imminent, which means I get to take rides from strangers. I am working furiously on this music, but my sorrow is impeding the joy that the music should hold.

I also am being cuddled by Ebay cats. Sylvani has a thing for the bathroom. I think the accessibility and familiarity of a toilet, as she was I found out, allowed to go into the bathroom at the shelter has helped her to feel safer there. So she will at least come to me in there if nothing else, and there is plenty of other stuff.

Despite my frustrations, also made worse by a few weeks of severe insomnia, I managed an hour of sleeping uninterrupted. Since Sylvani accidentally cut my hand with her claws, I “punished” her by forcing her to be petted until she purred and fell asleep curled up in bed with her. I wanted to make sure she knew a little yelp of pain wasn’t the end of the world here, because her reaction was utter terror. The round eyes and the look that Sprite used to get when we would take out the trash, someone has hurt this cat over little things. She needed to know she was safe. Heck as I type about her she is now on my couch bathing and giving me this post nap look of contentment. The nap was hours ago.

Sprite and Syl are working very hard to make me happy, it’s working most of the time. I haven’t felt this sad in two weeks, and it’s not as sad as the previous sad and yet I am still triggered. Yet I am enjoying waking up to a cat who sleeps in my arms and looks like a stuffed animal, snores, drools, and chews her tail in her sleep. Sprite isn’t enthusiastic about sharing the bed with the kitten yet but she never got to where Nymph was allowed, she merely understood that sickness meant she had to do what Ny needed.

I am wondering what it will take for me to have that same sense of relief and release for Rose, that pure moment when I know it’s okay. I am obviously not converted to Christianity by my poopiphany. I just have a bit of comprehension about why people find it approachable. It’s a bit romantic along the lines of other things that are romanticised and creepy. Dying for your sins, before you are born. If I could believe reality worked with such things, then I would be full of joy at the thought, I would hold no ill will. Neither would anyone else. It’s that utopia thing that makes my brain scream and rage, because it makes no sense.

I know this was blathery and babbly, that’s a side effect of my having had a moment where I could have gone down the dark road. I just need to sleep it off. Or write a story where someone gets murdered by a zombie in a power chair.

Letting Go

There is a new kitten in this house. Like Nymph she was born in April. Unlike Nymph I found her on Ebay. Literally! Her name is not Kashi, she ignored me when I tried, as that name is very unique. I think however it is wise she didn’t choose Kashi. Between Soda and Cereal stealing words from things such as faeries and Sanskrit I would have the most accidental brand name theme. Sylvani tried to answer to Sprite, however she was convinced to try another name. Sylvani, like Sprites and Nymphs are also faeries.

She has adapted well to the household, arriving in a manner that had us both stressed out. Then with about twelve hours of home time she endured a party. It was a fantastic party actually, and I had more fun with hoardes of people in my house than I thought I would. My friends oohed and awed over Meat cake, each one was impressed with the delicious gluten free cake, and yet after it was over I found myself sad. It felt unaccountable so I sat and thought. This was naptime, so I also slept a bit. It was a dreamless sleep.

I realized watching Sylvani peak out at my guests, too shy and still overwhelmed to say hello, reminded me of Nymph when people came over. Nymph would have been this same age but hardly would she have been this size. It became clear to me with in hours of having Sylvani here that Nymph was sick the minute she came into my home. My fears that Sprite gave her the illness faded, though now that is a risk. You see Nymph was abnormally small, so small in fact that I was worried for her. Sylvani is on the small side for her age too, but is almost as big as Sprite. She is far lighter, Sprite is softer.

Nymph purred but her purr was strange. My little purr factories are very good at their jobs, producing purrs nearly twenty four hours a day. Her first hour here, Sylvani purred and napped with me. Nymph did too. Nymph seemed to purr backwards in a way, it is hard to explain but I am left to think that she had other things wrong with her. She was so tiny, so fragile. She was a cat made out of faery dust and love. Too fragile to last in reality.

Sylvani is solid. I have no fears for her future as plagued me constantly with Nymph before I even knew she was ill. I have some residual fears because of the loss of Ny but Sylvani does normal cat things. She knows how to play. Sprite has not had to teach her how. She knows how to jump, though she can’t quite make the food counter. She likes to headbutt my ankles and stretch up to touch me. Her beautiful eyes are bright and shiny and she is curious.

Nymph wasn’t all that curious. Sprite literally taught her to pounce and play. Sylvani is creating her own methods of play with the existing toys. Did you know a laserpointer needs no human? She has been flinging it and pouncing it. She found the truest method of dot defeat.

I talked with M about this for a while, and he said nothing much but did comfort me. There were no words of wisdom needed beyond, “You were afraid to love Sprite, you were afraid to Love Ny, but you don’t seem to hold any fears for Sylvani.” My fear for Sprite was that I would be homeless and could not feed her. This came to pass, though not at all in the expected manner. My fear for Nymph came to pass. It seems my subconscious does a very good job of creating reasonable fears.

I could not see Nymph as an adult cat. Sylvani being nearly identical to Sprite with the exception of the angular nature of her eyes may help but I can see them together in a fear years, Sylvani coming with me as a service animal. I could see Nymph as one but her passivity worried me too at times for a service animal is not always passive with their person, at least with my method of training. Service animals are a balance between proactive and passive.

I find myself no longer so worried that I had failed Nymph in some invisible way that only I was aware of. I find myself mourning her still but not as much. Sylvani is healthy. She is not so small that I worry about her dying because of the surgery to have her spayed or nuetered. She’s a girl so whichever applies. In fact she has managed to kick Sprite out of the sunny spot, without so much as a hiss.

Sylvani and Sprite are most likely related with in a generation. Either Sylvani is Sprite’s Niece or Sprite’s mother lived a long time while producing offspring. This is based on more than their looks. Sprite spent a time in the same Shelter that I found Sylvani on. Via Ebay yet still a shelter. Sprite was found in a similar fashion by said shelter. Both cats were adopted just after being put on the short list for euthanasia. They have similar dispositions so far, though Sprite has shown far more meanness in her life time. That cruelty to people was survival. She was the least likely to find a home, Sylvani’s issue with homes was age discrimination. Too old and too young at the same time.

So I am taking a breath, and I am letting go. I cannot hold on to Nymph out of regrets and sorrows that do not belong. She got what she came for here, and she gave me something I needed too. It was the same thing. Love. Nymph reminded me to love myself. It isn’t the inspirational cat with a disability story, for there was no point of her being ill and suffering that was inspiring. It was simply the soft way she walked through life. She didn’t let her pain stop her from being the gentle soul she was. Knowing how much she hurt all the time makes me sad but, I hear that is true about people when they realize I was literally born in pain. It makes them sad.

I have another post about my mother that will come out soon but for now I am going to watch the cats ruin the rest of the marshmallows. They started this during my nap last night, but apparently Marshmallows are delicious to both of them. Sprite has a history with them, but she prefers the minis. Sylvani adores the big ones. She has flung them, turned them into pillows, and her face when she first bit into one was priceless. I was there for the first taste. It took her a while to decide that the flavor was great! It’s time to turn on some lights and open the curtains and have a day. A day of cat play!

Soul Lobotomy

As being a goth requires thinking on Death, I seem to fit that quite well. Of course not all Goths are actually death obsessed but I myself have always been. You see, I do fear death. It is not my death I fear, I accept that this is an inevitability. It is the deaths of others. Sprite is not handling Nymph dying well, and her behavior has started to reach the critical point when she begins to self mutilate. I am left remembering my own deeds of self destruction, and yet most of those times others would think of were the acts of them not me. It is a strange tangle. So in my worry for her I spent the day on the phone with the vet, who worked with us via telephone for free.

Our options are find a cat…. or trying antidepressants. I am certain that you all know what my decision was and my vet strongly recommended the cat over the drugs. I have crystalized the thoughts enough as to why she cannot be the only cat, and M my friend helped that by flat out asking why it is okay for me to put her emotional needs above my own.

I don’t think I am of course, but with animals and love in general I am a thousand times bitten and a million times shy so I never recover from a loss. The trust and love of any living being is far too rare for me. Sprite also keeps me alive and happy and healthy. The trifecta of need is met with in her compact furry form. So much soft fur, so much amazement.

So what is it that has her in such a state each time she is the only cat?

Some Sprite facts.

She has never been the only cat, except with me. The formative years of her life were spent first in a hoarding situation with a cruel cat hoarder. Yes they think they love cats but when you cannot care for them and there are so many that they are starving and just a trapped Pride of ferality, you are being cruel and need them rehomed. She then moved there to a crowded foster home. A shelter, a multi cat household with five cats, including herself. Then, back to a shelter. Another multicat household. A shelter where to save her from being euthanised she entered yet another cat household with a slew of people and cats. Two cats per person and at least five people, though I think it was way more. I forgot as it’s been a long time. Six years in fact. Then she moved in with myself, my roommates, and their two cats. She struggled to deal with just two other cats. IT took her over a year to adapt to that, and at first she self mutilated over being lonely.

Then I got married. She needed stitches from her self harm fit, and we got William Shakespurr. Even typing his name makes my ribs hurt, so there are regrets but not between Sprite and myself. After rehoming him once she started self mutilation there was Nymph. Sprite hasn’t been so depressed in the entire time I have known her. She is in some moments a shell of who she was. My eyes and nose have the tingle feeling that I associate with crying when i think of her pain.

So do I drug her and spend exactly the amount I have after rent for food and other bills? Nope. I am going to find a cat. The cat won’t be big, I will not risk my health for this cat. I won’t get the poodle off of Craigslist I found. A dog I could pet! Wee. It would be fine until it barked, licked me, had to pee, wanted to go for a walk, needed grooming, a bath… and of course there’s DOG food. Ick. We have a few caterviews coming up. The first one I feel won’t happen as the people with the cat first asked for 1000 for a mixed breed cat of no special intellect. They admit she’s a very stupid cat. Then again she was more likely spoiled than stupid, as the humans adopted her instead of a child. They cannot afford pet rent anymore. Something I do not contend with here thankfully. So we moved on.

Yet it was in this that my fears came to verbalisation. You see, I wake up and my first thought is rarely, “God damn I have to pee.” That’s my third thought. My first thought is, and has been since my first night with her. “Oh god is Sprite still alive.” My second has become, “Oh God is my secret love’s name here still alive?”. It leaves me shaking. Then I breathe, realize yes, Sprite is here. Go pee, and check to see if said lover is still alive. This has gotten worse since Rose died and a lot worse after losing Nymph. I am prone to going to my bedroom if Sprite is sleeping and waking her up just in case. I had gotten past that need just a few years ago. I will try again. By past, I do mean I just didn’t do it every few hours every day. About once a month.

In fact my fear that my loved ones will die was an issue with my ex-husband, as I would sometimes have to wake him up if he was too still or quiet. I would wait hours, biting my nails, trying to not cry and when I could stand it no longer I would touch him. Breathing isn’t enough, I need actual movement preferably with snarls of “I am sleeping go away”.

Somehow this lead to a promise that lead to a discussion of Greek Mythology, the details would give away identities of people who must remain secret so, shh… In the discussion of the Greek Afterlife aka Tartarus, I mentioned I would rather be in the torture section also called Tartarus instead of the Elysian fields or the very boring sounding waiting dock where people who cannot pay the boatman’s fee end up. No, the Elysian fields sound horrible to me. They are after all intended as a Utopia but one person’s Utopia is another’s meloncholic vision of sadness.

Imagine waiting forever for your loved ones. This is what you do there. You wait. They must die to join you, you are not aware they are dead, and so you spend your days at home, doing small things like cooking or cleaning. You do not remember them fully you just know you are waiting. You do not even know you are dead and the urge to explore or go beyond the simple tasks is removed from you.

What if you don’t have a loved one? What if your loved one goes to Tartarus instead? What if they become immortal? Do you wait forever? What if they are one of the chosen few who is allowed something else at the discretion of the god Hades? You are left to remember nothing forever. How is that utopian? It sounds more like a lobotomy of the soul to me.

As it is, I have found no conception of the afterlife suits what I would see as heavenly. Golden streets sound hideous and wasteful, and a heaven as the Christian Heaven was taught to me with no pets, gender segregation amidst other kinds (not wholly a universal tradition) but where there is need to fear attacks from hell, where again thought is not prized… this seems wrong to me too.

I cannot think of any widely known traditions that don’t make me sad, lonely, or a bit angry. Probability factors? All three. Some of my sorrow is my depression and aching heart over the lost friends. A lot of it is the sensation of insult that even in death I am relegated to doing what others would deem right for me and not what would make me happy in these supposed places.

I guess heaven would require me to be fulfilled by myself. Even that possibility is a requirement. I would demand full disclosure, instead of fading to a shade of my former self as the Greeks put it. So as I think of Rose and Nymph and what their heaven’s should entail i want to be remembered, I want them to know they are dead if THAT will make them happy, and if they want to wait for me great. If not? That’s fine too. I dislike the image of my friends being leashed until I die. In a way it’s a sort of a chain unless people become hermits.

Your mother loves her husband. He loves her. Your parents love you. They love your siblings. You and your siblings marry and have children. You die, you and your parents and siblings are now all dead and waiting. Your children and grand children are alive. They reproduce, or even just fall in love or make friends with people on the deep level. Now you are all waiting.

The waiting never ends.

Anyone up for a Soul Lobotomy?

Little Flickers of the Candle

I mean for this to be a short post though often that is my intention and I have yet to muster one of those. I am listening to Sprite who is so soft and I am in that just woke up from my nap space still. I am making morbid associations that I can normally shunt away, I find it a bit fascinating. These are the little flickers of the mind’s candle. They are the sudden illuminations that can lead to a gasping breath as the ideas start to coalesce or clot together.

I am wondering if Sprite, who doesn’t actually like the traditional pet bed but who at the vet’s office when Nymph’s time came climbed in first, then settled down and waited with the little one actually understood that the bed was for Ny’s comfort? She has had them offered at various vets, and shunned them each time. She has her own of a sorts, it’s a lot more cloud like, a dark color, coated in catnip and she has yet to touch it. Though she was staring at it in her basket with this great look of melancholy. That or the cleaning of the basket and the addition of padding instead of a blanket is no longer “right” because it now holds no scent of the little paws and bright eyes she and I love.

There are now no hidden corners in which she can rest and inhale the warm scents, if now a bit musty, of Nymph. There are now no spaces or places in which to hide, really. Those were either changed, destroyed, or moved. This was necessary so that she can be healthy and whomever comes to live with us too. Yet I see the flickers of sorrow in her at this. Her pain is great. Not that mine isn’t but I feel hers is greater. She has never been this sad to be away from other cats.

Not Thor, whom she had wrapped around her tail and was her loyal male slave like creature. Not a lover, but instead the fetcher of toys and the kneeling footman awaiting instruction with the flick of her tail. She didn’t like his companion Mid-Knight much at all but was sorry he fell ill, Mid-Knight seemed to resent her more than she didn’t care too much about him. It was all her playfulness and rejuvinating his once quiet friend. This darned female had gotten Thor up to running up trees, despite being declawed. I always worried about Thor being allowed outside with his defenses gone, but he was not my cat. I could barely keep her in once we discovered her allergy there.

William Shakespurr, whose perfect owner is now dead as Craigslist displayed while I was companion hunting, he was not mourned for even an hour. The atmosphere was celebratory for both of us. His blundering forcefulness while endearing left us both with literal wounds and literal scars. My nearly dying at the hands of this cat was just too much to bear.

No, it was Nymph who wooed and won us. In fact I was unaware how much her presence had changed me. My doctor’s visit today helped showcase some of that. As she commented on the change and just how much cleaner things were, despite the layers of cat clothes which had been left to dry overnight on every available surface, I told her why there was so much cleaning. In fact the only real thing that needed a good scrub in general was my carpet but it looks so much nicer that it IS worth commenting on. Cat vomit stains are gone. I am doubly sold now on a carpet cleaner for myself. Yes, when I told her she was very sad. Then she looked a bit worried, and told me why she was worried

Nymph had been medicinally good for me. My blood pressure went back to normal, I had quite a long year of moderately high blood pressure. Normal for most people is high for me. I wasn’t as pale and pasty, though I am pasty again it isn’t the loss of Nymph but again, uterine dynamighting. She saw both Sprite and myself “blossom”. We became ourselves, as if the missing piece was found. That’s how it had felt with Nymphy too. That little sadness that is there is a ghost of the flickers of her candle. It’s her shadows, her scent. The ghost isn’t something Sprite or myself wanted gone either. Nymph smelled like chocolate to me. Sprite smells like sugar cookies (gluten free of course).

Thor smelled like grass. Mid-Knight’s scent was very gross, though that may have been the impending illness there waiting to be noticed. William Shakespurr smelled like pee, because he would roll in the litterbox after peeing. Very disgusting cat that one. Yet when I would lay with Sprite and Nymph on me I would smell them both and it was better than eating a chocolate chip cookie (dark chocolate chunks).

So as I wake up, via writing, I am left with the rest of the thoughts of her visit. She doesn’t think I am any more depressed than I was a few months ago. Grieving? Yes. Depressed? No. I am always a bit depressed but I didn’t lose any ability to the depression except that one hour a few months ago, before Nymph, when I had to choose to get out of bed because laying there was just being depressive and I didn’t let me. I’ve felt consistently good. Most of the time I am happy. I am death obsessed but, that’s par for the course given my life. My doctor says so. The amount of death I have dealt with outweighs most average US Citizen’s experiences. I think those studies (she could cite them, it was funny) are a bit focused on middle class white people but I could be wrong.

My exhaustion is definately a side effect of the gouts of blood. My blood tests show I actually have been cycling. My uterus is trying to WORK. My ovaries too. Damn them. She was relieved I refused birth control, and having had an anaphalactic response to Yazmin, I plan to continue to do so. That won’t stop this kind of bleeding as my blood is blood not a mix of fleshy bits that pass for blood to the unaware mind and eye. The color is wrong, there is no fade in or fade out as my body tries to get “things done”. I don’t have Cushings Disease, as was a concern for a long time. Yay, no need for Brain Surgery.

The thing is, she also is worried that my current doctor is ignoring the issue. She recommended I sue and move to … California! The fact that my best medical option is moving out of state irks me to a degree. She doesn’t think a hysterectomy is the right answer for me, sure it will fix the bleeding issue but it doesn’t tell us why I am bleeding, is invasive, potentially deadly especially in my case, and could screw me up if I don’t have an answer. It could be cancer but she still thinks, as I have said myself, that it isn’t likely. Not because I don’t have a higher risk or symptoms but because there are less deadly scary things that could be wrong. My hypothesis about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome causing tears is the most likely. In that case, I have no clue what the treatment will be but I have guesses.

It was good to affirm what I already knew. I am fine, in fact I am hardly a flickering candle most of the time and feeling this weak is very annoying. I am not sure I am able to sue at this moment because of lawyers fees etc but I do like that she has some similar ideas on California’s climate. SHe specified LA, which is my aimed at city. I have a fantastic doctor.

I also started the process for a cat interview with Sprite, so maybe by Monday there will be another cat living here. The cat is a bit older than Ny, but then I thought Ny was too young. I am not going to age discriminate against cats at all. I just hope this set up works out. If not, then the cat’s previous owner/mother will regain property of said feline and that will be that. We’ll just try again. Sprite’s gotten down to sulking most hours because she is lonely and sad. I think another cat around to at least fight with a bit will do her wonders.

The Weight of Sadness

The weight of sadness on my soul lately has worn me through. I know a large part of it is my body trying to fail. I am on this precipice, it is raining, My hands ache and I cannot hold on and yet I am afraid of letting go. I am terrified to write, I am terrified to love, and yet I cannot stop. Writing is at the moment a sort of affliction. I wonder at times if my intellect is a curse, as there are no real outlets. Traditional education leaves me wanting greatly as I cannot do it. Reading the works of others is the same as writing, it is pouring boiling water on a blistered soul.

I am not certain why I start to cry when I think of writing. I have so many stories in my head, I have so many things that I should write and I have this dream that has haunted me for the longest time. I fear this dream. It was pleasant, but it was more a waking vision brought on by starvation that has left me quaking each and every time. I have mentioned it before but I do find it stalking me once more, the whispers, the pushing.

I know this is a pressure of my own making and I have all those excuses again. I am afraid to trust my computer, and I don’t trust the internet to save my literary work. I doubt myself too. There is a part of me that was hammered at so hard that my creativity has always been stunted. Delusions of Grandeur. This is the term that my mother and various psychologists applied to my idea that I could do anything more than be average. I am a genius so why can’t I do anything?

My usual methods of slowing the thoughts and words are failing, I think my body is the main reason. I am exhausted, and every symptom that I have is very much an indicator that something is wrong. My doctor is coming tomorrow of course, I was about to call her when she called me. It was one of those moments that makes me feel relief as if anything is worse than feeling this pressure in my skull from the words stacking themselves up, shouting louder and louder, wanting out but letting them out isn’t enough, I have to show them to people. I must let them see that I figured out the truths of the world but I dare not because those truths are the same ones that had me sent away to the mental hospitals where i was drugged and left unable to let the words out… and I can barely breathe but the phone is that bad.

My jaw. My hands. My legs. My feet. My fucking uterus. Take them all but leave my mind a way out. My eyes fail. My ears fail. I am in some sort of torment. I also am having a lot more need for stimulation. I cannot stop touching things, even when I know it will make the other broken shards of my humanity rear up and stab me. I cannot stop. I try. I spent the entire day in bed and read six novels, and not a one satiated that hunger in me.

I have remembered things, since my nap. THey are still shadows and I know the reality is I am depressed. I spent most of my life in torture. I escaped. Then married torture again. Is it any wonder that I am shaking in my soul? I am in love with someone and told them. That’s enough to leave me screaming on this cliffs edge. I start to wonder if it is really so high? I know too that my lover will catch me when I let go. He always does. Even when he doesn’t know I am about to squash him from great heights.

He knows I hate being rescued but constantly he picks me up when I fall, and asks nothing in return. It is constant. There are so many people now that are around me and I cannot give them enough. I am worried that my face doesn’t show what I feel. I am worried I am too quiet about it. I cannot speak as much lately, the words are too loud and I just want to dream. My dreams are words, music, pictures. All folded together and they can overwhelm reality. I didn’t write at all between the ages of 15-17 except for a few months when I had to for english and I found poetry bleeding out of me. I was encouraged but it was too late. I had stopped singing then too. No music. No creation. All so my mother would love me.

So these universal truths I know? Heaven is hell. That’s the secret in the bible. If angels can reside in heaven before they fall, and they can it is right there in the texts about Lucifer, then who is to say that all the angels aren’t the very demons people fear so much? This is hypothetical since I am not sure angels are even real except when I look at Sprite and she says she loves me so plainly that the deaf man across the street hears her and decrys me a witch.

The descriptions of demons are also the descriptions of angels. The layers of heaven in the scant descriptions are those of hell. I see it, and I cannot let it go. It is like the Joss Whedon is a plagiarist thing. It has sparked an explosion in me. All this comes from a work of fiction I never will share as I did not write it alone. Yet I cannot stop seeing it. It’s there. From my dreams of demons as far as I can remember which were escapes on to each story I have ever told, the duality is a singularity.

My world broke down again, and it hurts. I know the real wrench is my grief over so much loss. Each loss is culmulative. I never will stop grieving. This is my way. I don’t stop living, and I keep going but each day I spent a little time being sad. I have just been interrupted by a yowling cat, which overlaps my thoughts. Scared me. It sounds like William Shakespurr. It is not Sprite. I had to open the door and find out what it was. It was sorrow. Literal and figuratively. Sprite’s little hutch that was for her and Ny, that was too nice to give away withstood the rain alright and attracted cats from all over. I felt a spike of terror as I saw them, and I pray we cleaned it well enough. I feel guilt now too.

Yes I spend every day with at least an hour of grief. I grieve over everything I dreamed over, everything I lost, I grieve over each animal my mother let my grandmother or her husbands murder. I grieve over grandparents she swears I shouldn’t recall but I do. I recall kindness and love. I grieve for my sensei. I grieve for Snowball the cat that was drowned, I grieve for my rage at my brother and my grief goes so far as to grieve not realizing that as a toddler alone with a swimming pool he could have drowned. I grieve for my mother, I wonder who she would be if her mother had died not her father, I grieve for the multiverse of what ifs really. Yet most of all I grieve for Rose, whose children turned traitor the moment she died out of greed. I grieve for Nymph too. That fresh wound bleeds regularly and more than my allotted “time to be sad”. I grieve for the fact that I allot time to be sad.

I am letting go, and I find I don’t need to be caught this time. I knew I wouldn’t be really but I was afraid of being wrong. Sometimes the fear builds up in me and the ideas I have scrape the bedrock of what I live by, and that is painful as that bedrock is not stone but nerves and brain matter. I know my body needs tending, and so I shall tend it. I am pushing for a few things, getting my jaw fixed so that talking doesn’t end with me crying at night because it hurts. I can’t stop talking any further than I have, and I won’t give up voice acting. Then, there’s the dynamite in my uterus. I am not sure how it got there, but my ovaries have matches and keep setting it off. I think I am really bleeding, and I really do think that I need to just cut it out. It being my uterus and really I won’t use dull scissors I swear.

I am afraid of dying. Each year on my birthday there’s that “Well this is the last one” and though I buck against it a part of me fears death. This is a rare thing and will pass, it’s an annual tradition.

The dream that goads me scared me even then. It was a weight set upon me and I wonder if it is secretly desire or if it was one of those dreams that was really not a dream. I have them often enough, where things turn into reality but I did dream them. They bother me most. Usually those are scarier than nightmares. At least nightmares are fictitious.

I went to the land of death, and entered an english tea garden. I was not dressed for the ocassion and yet I found I was greeted by several women. Jane Austen, the Bronte Sisters (Emily and Charlotte) and Virginia Woolf sat at a table, and there was a spot for myself. I walked over the soft grass and seated myself. It was a bit odd for me as at this point I wasn’t familiar with their personalities but I did research after the dream. Either I extrapolated from their books or I guessed correctly. These literary greats, whose shadows I could only hope to fall into someday greeted me, there was pleasing conversation about small things for a moment while I situated myself with the best tea I have ever tasted, Picasso’s Suaree. Not sure how that last word is really spelt I have only heard it. It’s a tea like caramel, you add brown sugar and a hint of cream and it is like drinking the stars.

Virginia Woolf looked at me and said, “We have a problem with you.” I wondered immediately what I had done wrong, because really, they were dead before my time. Emily nodded, and she smiled, “You aren’t writing dear, why ever not?” I said nothing. I felt ashamed. This angered me of course because how can I feel ashamed for not writing when… my list of excuses falls short even for me so I just listened as each of them explained to me that I am far from alone in my torment of having to create, and having that creativity be something forbidden. To write as a woman now is almost passe, yes we still fight for publication and there is still this ridiculous idea that children prefer books written by men as do adults yet, facts don’t hold up for a bias for either gender but a quality of work. They each explained that they would get fevers if they didn’t write. I do, I can register it with a thermometer. I get so caught up in thinking I fall ill.

So they assured me it was my duty to write. Not a destiny. Not a choice. I am beholden to my mind to use it, and as I am a modern outsider for acceptability with literature I should. I can be satirical such as Austen, or I can be something else. I should merely put the pen to paper every day. In my dream they each handed me a writing instrument, and we enjoyed conversing. I asked about being dead and it was something that made them laugh. “Who says we’re dead?”

The afternoon shifted to evening and I was sent on my way with a reminder from Austen, though she did look at the others first before saying it. “Your words hold the lives of people in them. You can change the world with a single sentence.”

I started this blog after that, I did start a book. My exhusband destroyed that. So my great burden really boils down to one thing. Fear. I am afraid to lose more work. It is as painful as losing my friends or realizing that my mother is everything she taught me to fear and hate. It is as bad as remembering more death and destruction. I cannot stop thinking on this dream vision. I want it to be true, and in ways it has proven to be so. I write and mention periodically that people read my work and email me via my little form and they say they were going to die before they met my words. This has become a daily and often more than once daily trend. Then there are the people who have changed my world. Each person is a world in my mind after all. A universe to explore. so the words were true. What else can I do?

I am afraid. I cannot stop thinking, and I don’t think trying is the right method that leads to nosebleeds and cutting myself. I don’t do self harm. I also haven’t been this healthy in a long time despite the failings of my body. Those failings are regularly schedulable to a degree. I am afraid of succeeding. I am afraid of moving away from the horrors I know into the hope of tomorrow. I am afraid of this damned new cat idea. What if it dies? What if I just killed kittens by having that stupid cat furniture outside? What if Sprite dies? I think that would end my world really. I don’t know that I could handle that and I am so afraid of her dying. I don’t want to be afraid of that but I can’t stop it. I cannot imagine my life without her warmth or the way she says little barberous things about people that I wish I could say, and they understand her and get that “I have to poop” look. I am afraid of losing her. I know cats don’t live forever but I am terrified.

This is the weight of my sadness. I don’t know why I cannot stop carrying it around with me, except that my mother shut down all avenues of help via abuse chemically and sadness or rage are all I have known. I have wounds that bleed words, and words that bleed words. I am a font of thought and ideas and it is peculiar to this world. I cannot type fast enough either. Nor do I have the energy to stay up writing as much as my brain wants.

Is this PTSD? Is this brilliance? Is this a delusion of grandeur? I have the papers that say I am a genius, and I also prefer that term to weird, insane, crazy, but I think it covers them all. Genius is smart without normality right? Sure I have the IQ numbers but that has meant little to me. If you add the numbers together you get different things it’s like a puzzle. No I admit to genius because my conception of genius is someone who doesn’t stop thinking sometimes paralytically so.

A Year After Survival (Trigger Warning)

It was a year ago that I was sitting in that place, full of filth and disease. It was a year ago that Anthrax threatened my flesh and my mind was as damaged. It has been a year since in desperation I misdialed the number that lead me to finding my current apartment where I met my case manager who shares my name, where I escaped not just the first but the second bad carer, and where I began to heal. It has been a year.

It has been a year of utter devastation in some other ways. It has been a year of great loss. Death has haunted me my entire life from being forced to help my father kill on to the loss of every pet Grandma ever took in to shelter for us or my mother helped rehome, the death of my best friend, the death of Nymph, and the deaths that I felt uncomfortable mentioning. That would be the deaths of allies in advocacy, some of my heroes, but death has been here. In some moments I feel death is mocking me for living by taking everything that is important to me. I think that’s grief. I know it isn’t the actual facts as death is merely a part of life but my feelings do make it ache.

It has been a year of distance. I have started to step away from people that would perpetuate the year of Torture, people that do not understand this is not normal or healthy. Or family that does not respect that I damned well have a right to live in peace without being treated like a monstrosity for not doing things their way.

It has been a year of tears. I have cried more in the last year than I have in most of my life, yet this is a wonderful thing. Though it means I am wounded and grieving, when have I not been? I cannot remember any moments without pain until the last few years of my life and this year has held a majority of good.

It has been a year where I have admitted I am in love with someone. I have been for a very long time, albiet against my will. I love myself. I love Sprite. I love Rose. Still. Death doesn’t cancel out love. I adored and loved my little Nymph friend. I love M my friend. I love. I love. I love.

It has been a year of hope. I started to dream again, not the literal way but the hopes and dreams of a life beyond struggling to make ends meet, a life beyond this desolate place where I have never been able to leave. I hate New Mexico, and I always have. it has been a year of great achievements. Partly because I am still here and kicking.

My 26th Birthday is approaching and I am going to have people over to celebrate. I feel strong enough. I feel safe enough. I still want to flee this place. Yes it has been a very hard year. What year isn’t going to be hard? I have a laundry list of illnesses and disabilities, I have a mind that just won’t shut up, and I honestly cannot imagine life without a challenge. I truly think it would be boring.

This year I have learned some things about myself…

1. I have a very interesting life. More so than many people have. My life could be a great work of fiction, it would make a great movie series because each year holds enough action to make Harry Potter wish he had my level of danger, daring, and doing. I would still not wish this life on anyone but I also wouldn’t change it. My life has never been boring. I cannot say I haven’t been bored, but it’s been a very long time and that’s why I stopped enjoying school that first year.

2. Love. I has it. (Imagine a lolcat saying that if you would please.) I have always been capable of great love, like all my emotions when I love someone animal or human it is with all of me. There is only a set of extremes inside of me, so my love is extreme and comes with a side package of loyalty and trust. You can of course get rid of parts of this but I will always love you once I did before. I love my father. The evil bastard. I am still glad he is dead. I love my mother. The pathetic damsel in self imposed constant distress. I am still not going to invite her in, as that’s the rule with vampires of all varities. I don’t love my grandmother. I never have. She has always been a caricature of torment to me, even when torment was normal and acceptable in my world of Hitler fanatic parents and abuse. She’s always been worse than my father. I will sadly always love my exhusband. The thing is, I will love who he appeared t be not who he is. I will love the love of my life who knows who they are. There are no caveats there. I will love them and there is nothing anyone can do to stop that, even myself. I did try… I will love Sprite forever. I find the idea that she is my furry wife or soulmate, the wife thing starting as a joke about the supposed women’s duties which she does. She feeds me, clothes me, holds me and satisfies most of my needs but not the carnal ones is accurate. I glanced at her just now sitting in my new wingback chair and she looks so sad right now, and we both are because… I will always love Nymph. Even though she is gone and even though I had to let her die, I will always love her. I will probably always love the next companion Sprite gets. That happens sometime this month.

Yes, a year of love. I will always love myself. I didn’t used to. Even through the years of survival and struggle, even being “better” than the text books tell you someone with my level of PTSD, disabling, even with Autism, even with taught body hatred (fat, not blond, not able enough, just not good enough for anyone (Thanks Mom!)). Yes, Even then I never quite got the hang of looking at myself and seeing a person of value. I came close, a few years ago I started to get there most days. For the majority of this year I have loved myself. When puking from pain and or illness? Check. When unable to shower for two weeks because it hurt too much so I ended up wanting to claw my skin off to make myself clean? Check, that’s why I didn’t let myself lose my flesh to my fingers. Even when I felt it was my fault irrationally and that somehow I deserved being penned in a room and starved and raped? Yep. I still felt beautiful and at peace. That one really threw me for a loop. I haven’t felt that the abuse is my fault for most of the time since this started. The nifty side effect is, I don’t see ugly people anymore. The majority of people outside my door or online or people who aren’t movie stars are all stunning to me. Movie stars hate themselves usually, they abuse themselves and that does uglify them to me. Self hate isn’t pretty.

I love.

This has been a year of food. On my birthday I am going to make (with my carer) a food I haven’t let myself have for three years. The last time I ate it was when my ex was a fiancee. Penne Rosa. This decadent dish is my favorite. It pwns lasagne. I didn’t even notice I had deprived myself of it. I did so out of anger with myself, so I must forgive and eat the deliciousness. It’s expensive to make and very rich food. It’s something I learned about when I was a chef. Yet despite depriving myself of Penne Rosa without acknowledging it subconsciously I have eaten very well this year. This last year has the advent of Meat Cake into my life, the flavor is very rich, it’s not salty but it isn’t plain. It’s meat cakey. It is the most delicious savory food I have had in a while. I consider pasta’s sweet. I have reclaimed the Quesadilla. Despite living on them for a year, two months ago I found they no longer make me want to puke. So snake food is a go. I have had the advent of the Dilly Bar into my life. Butterscotch or cherry please? Some of the changes are based on the local area discovering Gluten Free, so I now can have bread or pizza at my whim (and ten dollars total ingredient cost, not twenty for cardboard). I also started only eating food that tastes good. THis happened in January.

This has been a year of the evolution of appearance. I stopped hiding under horrible black hair. Black hair is great on other people, and I can pull of the sickly goth look with it but despite being Goth, looking like I am dying isn’t something that feels right. I like being on fire, not literally since we’ve been there before, but with my red hair, my fierceness showing in my eyes and rich red lipstick. I figured out that anything I wear is goth. I am a goth. I am wearing it. Still not a fan of blue though. My war against only wearing black was lost. I feel comfortable there, I feel sexy. I still do wear other colors, mostly reds and greens. Still. Despite trying to listen to what other people said my fashion identity won out. Some of the evolution is the loss of ballgown length skirts. Wheelchairs don’t like them. They like to eat them. So I must streamline my tastes. Alas. Alack. It’s a bit fun actually. I also started wearing black eyeshadow more often. I am still waiting on that corset, it apparently was lost in the mail and the company I am working with is not getting repeat business. That’s been going on for over a year now. When I get it, I still want to take those sexy photos. Unshaven lets are sexy.

This has been a year of creative goals. I haven’t been alive enough in recent years to write music, act, create, share. In the last year I have written several audio dramas, some are still in need of work. One is being produced and I have a voice acting role in it. I’ll share when that comes out and it will be free. I am composing a soundtrack for something that should air on most radio stations nationally, potentially internationally. I am writing a book on PTSD. I have had requests for a book on Autism, as I explain both in a way the Nuerotypicals understand, without them thinking (at least supposedly and this is my goal) that everyone with this label is the same. I am writing period. I am considering writing three books at once but for that my head may explode.

This has been a year of discovery. I am discovering it’s okay to not like TV. Sure, I had roommates with TV addictions and that contributed, but TV doesn’t work well with the way my brain works and that’s JUST FINE. I don’t have to be a big TV watcher. I also no longer want to write for TV, because TV and I just aren’t a match. Frankly, that’s a stress relief to admit. There is a reason that after becoming a TV/Movie critic I broke down for a while and had to quit. TV is TORTURE. I get physical pain, and I can’t see for crap so why bother? Audio dramas are more suited to me though some still fall prey to those isms that annoy me, anger me or otherwise fill me with epic disappointment… more often I find that the writers are more independent in their creation, and therefore they get a more “open” piece. The editing work I have faced with mine has been mostly grammatical errors. If there is something that I am told to change because being a wheelchair user who can kick isn’t real, I also learned I can say “I am a wheelchair user and I can kick like a donkey. I just fall over afterwards” and explain the whys, the editor accepts this and lets me know. It’s an open dialogue. Much better than the editors I had when I wrote as a kid. Then again I am an adult now, so there is a lot more respect for me instead of incredulity at my age etc etc etc.

I discovered a wheelchair that fits your needs means if you can walk a bit, you do. I am more physically active with my wheelchair than I was without it. It’s exhilarating. I am also mentally freed of unnecessary pain. I am not sure unnecessary is the right word, perhaps it is treatable pain that isn’t treated? That felt too long and needed qualifications. I have discovered that living alone is best, so even though I am in love and would marry said loved one if it was merely a matter of mind and heart that marraige won’t work unless we get a house with two kitchens and two bedrooms (well… three, Sprite needs one too). I have discovered that people get my jokes, even the bad ones. If I list all my discoveries my word count will be in the millions.

I have discovered that I like my dreams being nightmares for others. Today I dreamed I lived in a sitcom world, in fact I moved in with the family from “Family Matters” though some of them were from “The Fresh Prince of Belaire”… it was great but I was scared. I was scared that they would figure out I wasn’t belonging. I was scared that being not a TV type would get me ousted. I am not sure why my mind selected those shows, perhaps because Will Smith was a childhood crush? Perhaps because Urkle’s awkwardness made it safer? I was still scared and in my dream even wondered if my consideration of what a nightmare is, is different than others. A nightmare means you are terrified. I am not afraid of hoardes of demons but I am afraid of Uncle Phil telling me I am just not good enough. Also stairs but then, I can’t get up them.

I have discovered I dislike most comedy films, as their humor relies on othering people and as an outsider it hurts instead of humors. This of course is well known to many. I have discovered Twilight worries me for the safety of Stephanie Meyer. I suspect she is in an abusive relationship or will be, as her inner soul shows a romanticism of very dangerous things. I have discovered that when Sprite is sad she cries loudly, and I cannot. I don’t “boo hoo”. Just as when I fight physically I am quiet. It’s not ninja as some have accused me of but it is the knowledge that being loud means you get hurt more. I am trying to cry with sound now.

I have discovered that mathmatically based on the sale ads my friends in California have sent me food may be cheaper there than here. Also, the foods I can eat are more plentiful. I secretly dream of fresh strawberries that won’t rot before the week is out. I have also discovered that housing is so expensive there it is beyond my ability to actually comprehend it. There is a literal disconnect in my mind.

In this last year, I have embraced my dreams. I have begun to not fight them, but to let them flow. I learned at a young age to control my dreams, and I wish I had not despite it being fascinating to be aware I am dreaming. I wish I had known I sleep better if I let myself dream about stabbing someone to death. The person is always evil, and I am always saving the defenseless. It is not murder but romanticised heroism. It still scares me, and I wonder what others dream about that they feel is wrong. I have had more sex dreams too. I no longer interrupt those but ride the passions out to see where they go. Usually? Orgasms. It has been a year of sleep. I still face insomnia but I am less tired, less angry, less cranky, and more able to face the world when I sleep and dream.

It has been a year of thought. I have not stopped thinking in my dreams or awakeness for over a year. I can usually sleep through it but as I wrote about before, sometimes it is so bad I can’t sleep. I have always been this way but I no longer tell myself it means I am crazy. Well, I am but I think it’s a good thing. Non crazy people tend to be very dangerous and terrifying.

It has been a year…

So what will this next year hold for me? Will I die before my next birthday (27)? Every year a doctor tells me I will… so far they’ve been very wrong. Will I go a whole year without someone trying to hurt me? I really hope so. Will I write seventeen novels and leave poverty behind and build a castle outside of LA with two kitchens and a cat kitchen? Probably not. The novels? Okay maybe one or two… The Castle? Give me a few years.

Will I start my band? Yes! We’re up to two other musicians now, which is real progress. Will I make my CD? Yes! Will I keep blogging? Yes! Will I get another cat and love it even though I really don’t want to and didn’t even want to get Ny because I was afraid she would die and am doubly afraid now for Sprite and future cat? Yep. Will the cat die? Probably not. Will I ever have that damned yard sale I have been trying to have for a year? Nope!

Will I survive another year? Yes. In fact, I believe in this next year I will thrive. I know for a fact I will begin making jewelry again. I already have. It’s super slow based on my limits but I will make it. I am learning to make chainmaille, and I will have a chainmaille shirt (not made by me, I want it before I am 70), I will go out after dark sometime too. I will have sex. I will buy a glass dildo. Possibly to use during sex but I may be selfish and not share that toy. I will keep going on and on.

I admit sometimes I wonder if I will even know when I am dead because I haven’t stopped. I am a clockwork humanoid in some ways, ticking on and on. Yet the rest of me is in fragments of my imagination. Sometimes I am a barbarian warrior woman, somewhere between Red Sonja and Xena. Sometimes I am just a princess, with the means to protect the people who don’t have enough and cannot fend for themselves. Sometimes I am a demonic seductress. Sometimes, I am a butterfly. Sometimes I am just myself and I am somewhere else.

When I seek out peace, I find it in my mind again. It has been a recent return to that quiet garden in my mind. Now there are new roses growing and new butterfly bushes too. It is still quiet there, this is the only place a lack of music is not a worry mentally. I have missed my secret garden, and I find though I did not tend it, I never really have. It has always tended me. It is here that my glass hearts grow and often break. It is here that my mind is a mix of vines and flowers, towering trees and hollow logs with new lychen and moss growing over them. It is here that the outside world and inside meet. This is my subconscious and it is where I often look at myself, and I wonder. This is a place where Sprite cannot follow. This is a place where I once mistook Heaven. This is a place I have not had for more than a year, and perhaps it was a memory from never.

In the last year I have unrepressed a hoarde of memories. Perhaps they are the demons I slay each night? I am aware of multiple murders by my father, both very similar. I am aware. I have acted. It is a pain, but this is the necessary pain. If I leave these memories buried they will poison me. The little girl that screamed so long is not screaming anymore. She still cries but she is now sheltered in that garden and at times she laughs and plays with the other people there. All of them are me. The orphan girl. The innocent one. I never really knew her before. I know talking of my past identities this way is also what caused people to try and force me to think I had fractured my mind and was dealing with multiple personalities. I finally understand that doctor’s diagnosis. Even my mother knew it was wrong and argued with her, which speaks volumes. Yet, I am aware that each trauma that locked a part of me away killed the previous identity.

In this last year I have been reborn. You have witnessed this birth through my writings and I am aware now that if any flower represents me it is the lotus with it’s many layers and blossoms. I am on a journey through each of the lotus layers of my life. My sensei told me that once and he said that he could not explain it to me but i would understand it one day, perhaps when I was very old but he hoped that I would do so before I was “ancient as the stones”. Remembering him, I remember why I am who I am. He did not act alone in the previous years to shape me but he set this foundation of fine stone. Without him, there would be no Kateryna Fury. There would be no person here. There would be no memories left. I would be dust and ashes long forgotten or remembered only with my mother’s hatred. There would be tear stains and bloodstains at most, no one would notice I was gone.

a hispanic woman stands naked in a black brace a severing wound goes down her throat and torso revealing an ionic column that is fractured in multiple=

It has been a year of Survival. Yes, I survived. Yes I fought harder and harder than I thought possible. I did not fight alone for the first time in my life. I did not starve. I did not hate myself. For the first time that I can remember I do not feel like Frida Kahlo’s broken column. My pillar is whole. It has been rebuilt, not replaced and not forgotten. It still has cracks, yet it is stronger than it has ever been before. I may live alone, but I am not alone.

I also know this is visible to others, though I didn’t think on it or expect that this would be so. I look alive. I no longer am carrying the burdens of forgotten crimes or crimes that i didn’t need to carry. That alone has set me free. Though I am sad at this moment, I am not shattered. My heart is reborn. I am the Lotus. I am the Warrior. I am the Writer. The pen is not mightier than my sword, but it is as double edged and I carry both.

Explosions (Trigger warning)

For some reason my chest feels like it is exploding. This is a feeling related wholly to emotions, not a physical one though they feel similar. There is a tightness there, and I feel as if there is a metal coil compressing me into a corner and I must run. I have some unspeakable need, it is unspeakable because I have never actually felt this need before. I have no clue what it is. I think it may be a hug, but I don’t know. It may be the need to cry, but I don’t think so because I am doing that as I write this.

This sensation is so very strange to me. I know what brought it on, and it may just be two forms of overload in one, emotional overload which is in the realm of PTSD and then sensory overload with a bit of an overlap. You see I feel a hint of this every time I find out a child has been violated in any way, and I already dealt with this today. I wrote a submission for a survivor’s anthology of letters. This means I laid open my heart and looked at the core for the words, and that always shakes me. On top of that in the morning Nymph will be going to the vet and will not be returning. Sprite is very upset, I am very upset and I would not have managed this weekend alone. M the Carer did more than her job.

I tried watching a movie, but it made this vice worse. I am new to knowing and understanding that I am different and I find it a struggle to know that each time I do this, writing this sort of thing publically, I am challenging conceptions. I find it painful, because I don’t understand and that knowledge adds this time to that sensation. I am proud that I am able to write and pour my heart into this world, so that the love I feel can be given to others in need of that.

I also hate that my words touch others who are wounded. Why? I don’t want them to be hurting in the first place! I am rocking as i sit, I don’t rock often, but I am stimming because if I stop then I will burst more.

Maybe this is empathy for how Nymph is feeling? The crushing fluids in her body that are suffocating her, rotting her? I feel guilt too because I went out today. I went for a walk as she is giving off this horrible smell that I know is very bad. Sprite was given the chance to come with me and almost did but went and laid down with Nymph with such resignation. She is hurting too.

A part of me thinks nothing will fix this sensation but time.

A part of me loathes my visual thinking.

YOu see whenever I talk about Nymph being given release from her intractable pain, which the medications no longer are helping with and relieving her of a torture that could go on for weeks I see her laying in the vet’s office, I see them giving her the medications and I see her dying. I can see it. OVer and over again.

I also cannot stop this. When I think of just Nymph I see her first time getting on my bed by herself, as she jumped up and down. I see her dancing to music, making me laugh as she does so. I see her surprise when Sprite pounces her and rolls her over, then bathes her head to toe. That is Nymph in my head. Euthanasia gives a more horrible image and this is where the trigger warning on this post started. I see the dog I beat to death because I had to protect my sister, I see the bloodied remains of the cats and dogs my father ran down out of malicious hatred for all life, and I see myself in the middle of a pool of blood, staring at my aching hands, which always ache when I am sad, and wondering why I wasn’t allowed to go to that bright light space, but had to keep on living even though I hurt. Even though my neck was broken. I see it all at once.

It makes me queasy.

The music in my head is easier. I am trying to set up my MP3 player with music that Nymph likes for tomorrow. I am not sure what her last sounds on earth should be. She likes Heavy Metal, Gothic Metal, but mostly me singing but I think I may cry too hard for that. Do I take a sound recording of myself? I am very tempted by a few songs I know she adores but they aren’t socially acceptable for this sort of thing, and may be a bit too macabre and I don’t want to damage my own needs by giving her something that will help.

Do I include the Rob Zombie with the Celtic Woman? I don’t know.

Maybe what I need are answers. I did sleep earlier, the rain that fell forced me to do so.

Oh yeah on top of this my toilet has sprung a leak. SO my bathroom floor is wet and of course Manager Fail decided to Fail like the label given. Thankfully he’s going going, and almost gone.

I was surprised by his kindness when Ifinally got him to come and see what we needed (new seal) when I told him why he could not touch the cats. He’s a nice man but incompetent with  his job. He has cats, new borns and none of his cats are over the age of FIP’s supposed immunity. He was horrified and told me if I need anything to ask. I know better but he meant it in that very moment.

I did get my brain to stop going over the things that I have to replace, that was sending me into panic attacks.

So what do I need?

I have no freaking idea.

Euthanasia (Trigger Warning)

I am not pro Euthanasia. I think it should be illegal for humans and pets to be discarded willy nilly. Euthanasia however has a special place when it comes to the suffering of animals, and if humans ever value minorities and the disabled, humans. Yes, I am well aware that cats and dogs are put to sleep for being unwanted and unloved, and that is a part of this conversation I am having with myself. You see, today it became clear to me that if Nymph is here Monday with her dull eyes, her silent meows because she just can’t take the pain caused by making a real meow and if she no longer purrs at all, I will take her in. We will reassess Wednesday if she is still here Monday and is okay enough that this is in her best interest.

Even considering this step is not in MY best interest. I realize part of what is in the house and what is under that ice, from my discussion with myself about fragility. Under the ice is the feelings I locked away after killing my dog, to protect my sister. In as little detail as possible for my sake, it was not humane but he had taken a three year old girl by the throat and so I did what I had to do. I can go into more detail but why? Even thinking of that hurts me. Especially the reasoning and the fact that we had raised this dog from a puppy, and I still cannot fathom why he attacked my sister.

In the house are the feelings related to every lost pet, every lost self, every moment of agony that I cannot quite accept was real. All the things I talk about, and there are more things that I am not sure really happened on the surface but I know deep down these “things never happen here” happened to me. More evidence that the crimes we westerners associate with third world countries happen here, and to the supposed preferred female archetype too.

I think a bit of my issue here is the location of my vet’s office. The first time we went in I had a serious flashback, I could still talk and was aware it wasn’t real but I spent most of the time seeing two worlds, and I think I may have “stumbled across” the location of the murder my father comitted. I am not able to explore that memory fully, it’s still distorted and my brain won’t process it when I try. The only way to force it is dangerous for me, so I won’t do it. I already know EMDR and also just going to the place where I was triggered? Very bad.

Still, back to the choice at hand. Nymph is dying a horrible and painful death. I decided that when the pain is there and she has no her left, if her body won’t stop going I will stop it. This time it will not be in my backyard. This time it won’t be an animal lost to a toddler left alone in a swimming pool that thought the kitten should swim, this time it won’t be an animal spreading disease because he was dumped instead of taken to the vet, though loving people did treat his expensive illnesses and then he left and returned to me like a ghost, this time I don’t have to watch her suffer for months on end because I and my cat don’t merit medical treatment. This time, she still ends up dying. The screaming in the house is me, screaming because how can I watch someone I love die? Agian? Humans, animals, even flowers before I understood them as others do, at least enough that seeing them cut doesn’t hurt me but it still can make me sad (though I worked as a florist so flower genocide haunts me at times) This is what is in the house.

Under the ice is my self hatred. I don’t talk about that very often because I don’t actually have a lot of self hatred and it tends to be fleeting. I am not a bad person despite being forced to do things that hurt my soul. There are sounds I never will forget, there are screams of pain mine and theirs that I can’t escape, so I put them away under ice and the house. There is no one or the other and that is a bit scary but the cracks are memoriy itself. They are a different form of rememberance, perhaps more violent or more gentle than the flashes that twist me into knots, I don’t know.

For Nymph this choice came down to a single thought, do I want her to stay for me? No, I want her to just die so she stops hurting. I want her to go, even though that pains me to want, because I love her. That’s when I knew that if she needs help letting go, then yes I can choose death over more painful death. Sometimes cats who are sick hold on to a point where no medication eases their pain, we’re on the edge of that already. I lived two years without pain medication and suffered. I won’t let her go days or weeks that way. I love her.

The second thought on this was, is it wrong? I thought I would say yes to myself, but the answer, though complex and a struggle to get out of my head? No, it is not wrong to let her go. It is wrong to make her suffer because I am afraid of feeling guilty. There is no way for me to escape the guilt at this time. No matter which choice I make, I will feel guilt.

Moments of guilt, is this soon enough, did I wait too long? What if I act too quickly? What if Sprite never forgives me? What if Nymph haunts me? what if? What if? I had to stop that sort of thinking and put it into terms for myself. If I were in a world where there wasn’t any morphine, an I couldn’t take pain medications would I have continued to let myself live? No. Ny doesn’t have as many options as I do, so I will help her. There is no cure for this disease, and Sprite, her share in this is also leading to yes.

I never wanted to have to make this choice again, but at least this time it wasn’t the choice of the giant dog vs my sister. It wasn’t life or death, just death and death.

Sprite is trying to keep Nymph happy. Yet she has hidden from her a lot more today. Sprite is crying for her. She woke me from my nap because Nymph was making that silent scream face, Sprite asked me to help her and all I could do was hold them both. Nymph has yet to leave Sprite’s side for the last day except for when Sprite goes somewhere Ny no longer can follow.

The purring thing is also misleading, which is why I am worried I may miss the cue, but I speak cat far more fluently than I do human, even typing this is harder for me than glancing at my cats and having an entire conversation. My self doubt is a part of grief and any time you choose death, even when it is one death over another, there is guilt. I feel guilty for Rose, because I feel her death though inevitable as she was alive (which I had to change from is to was) was preventable at this point in time. I feel the degradation she and I faced from the carer agency we shared, as well as the doctors we saw played a part and I am angry.

Nymph does not have that. I wish her vet was my doctor infact because he has treated us all with greater kindness and he hid nothing from me. He did ask me once if that was okay because he didn’t want to make it worse and I told him the truth, upfront hurts less than me trying to guess between the lines of discussion.

So back to Cat’s purring. Sorry this is so jumpy, my brain is not letting me flow as much because this is an active thought process not my more common secondary rehashing of ideas. I think the difference shows as those tend to be a bit more orderly. Screw order! Cats purr from pain, happiness, fear, and all sorts of emotions. Most often love and comfort. Cats purr to heal. The fact is, each purr feels different and when I touch Ny and she starts to purr, it is still love and comfort purr. Her pain purr is a ragged gaspy purr, it is a sad purr that doesn’t feel soothing. Still, those big golden eyes of hers are greying over, and I can smell her scent changing. That bothers me. Being super smell sensitive I liked her scent before. It was like ice cream. Sprite smells like sugar cookies.

The effect of her purr starting to change has not happened yet, which is how I know she will still be there in the morning. I sort of hope she and Sprite share my feet again, each one wrapped around them because that was a gentle way to wake up but I also keep waking Nymph when I cannot tell if she is alive. This happens a lot more each day. I have told her if she just wants to let go she should but I don’t think she can yet.

So Sprite is holding her. She has washed her every day, tucking her up against her side. She curls around her and Nymph wraps herself up closely and just closes her eyes and I know, if she no longer can rest that way I will do what is right, even if it is not what I want and in other situations I find this sort of thing abhorrent. This sort of pain and incurable disease, this sort of suffering is what Euthanasia was actually meant for. Is it murder? I honestly think in this case, especially since I can and WILL ask Nymph, as I have once already, no. Will it hurt and will I doubt that sense of no? Absolutely.

Some of the things Nymph has told me in the last few months we have shared:
1. You taste good, can I have milk on your hand again?
2. I want up! Can I get up too? I promise to not bite Sprite more?
3. Oh, it’s bouncy! (Twice, once for my stomach and once for my waterbed, she proceeded to jump up and down on both for the next hour)
4. Bug! Bug! I’ll get it! I can do it! Rawr! Aww… bug got… bug! (She then squished it under her paw, it was a spider.) Bug stopped moving.(She licked it, made a face) Bug is gross!
5. Soft, warm. I like this. (insert purring that out purred sprite as she stuck her head against my back and curled up next to me the firsttime) Okay I sleep here. (Sprite sleeps there, she wasn’t thrilled about that)
6. I love you.
7. Play? Here’s toy! Yeah!
8. I like hands. Yeah, put your hand on my head. See. I like this.
9. My tail is stuck again! Why doesn’t her tail get stuck?
10. I’m a big girl, just like Sprite.

Nymph has made me and Sprite very happy. That first moment when I met her, I was so surprised by her. I had begun to fear that I would never find a cat that was as cool, amazing, intelligent, or unique as Sprite. My two fae match their name sakes in ways. Nymph with her long thin legs, her adult size tail which is already longer than Sprite’s tail, and her big eyes and ears. She looks like she belongs in a fantasy novel to me, the cat companion to the heroine, her own stylized beauty perfect for such things. Of course Sprite was in the Golden Compass so her beauty with it’s delicate ethereal quality was already immortalized for all to see.

I still find myself imagining what Nymph would be like all grown up, and I regret knowing she wouldn’t ever be much larger than Sprite. Sprite is actually just a tiny bit bigger than Nymph, lengthwise. Ny was taller, and when they sat eating it was Ny’s tail that reached the second shelf down, that’s about a foot. Her tail stretches past her front paws and she has enough tail for two. Right now she has it wrapped all the way around her like a portable hug.

She doesn’t play today, because it hurts. Last night she hunted her last bug, and went for the string toy for a few moments, before the pain stopped her. She tried so hard to hide it but you cannot hide such things.

The part of this that is harder is when I cannot keep my tears on the inside, she still tries to make me happy. I know she knows she is dying. Sprite even told me so. When I asked her why she wasn’t sitting with Nymph, “I don’t want to see her die.” That was what she said. “It makes me sad. Make her better.”

I have come to a realization from this however, about heart break. Hearts do not break, they shatter. They are glass flowers that grow on the vines of our souls, and when we feel healed it is because it is a new spring time with in our minds and hearts. It is because we have regrown a part of us. That is why we are never the same, that is why at times we miss things and feel those shards of glass, they are there beneath the Heart Tree, evidence of the lives we have lived and the chapters that we have written. These shards can cut us but they also hold things of beauty. So though my heart has burst with sorrow, it held more joy than any heart I had before.

I am going to start looking for a new feline on my birthday. I don’t think I will want to. I however must take care of Sprite, and Sprite can handle a month of being alone before she starts to get depressed. I want to find a new companion by her birthday. I also know from experience with her that a month is how long she tends to openly mourn. Therefore, though I will never actually stop mourning, I will do what is best for Sprite.

I know I don’t stop mourning, I just don’t cry as much and remember the happy little moments like when Nymph decided the best place to sleep was in my miniature roses, and I woke up to find her coated in petals. Or when she then brought me a rose the next morning, having decided Roses are really great to pounce AND tasty. She took most of the actual roses, leaving the buds and laid them all around me. Sprite being allergic to roses had no reactions so she did not take part. When I can remember those moments and smile without tears, then I am once more living.

I haven’t managed to do that for Snowball, the kitten my brother drowned. Though as an adult I realize, A could’ve drowned as easily as he was without adult supervision. I am grateful he did not, and I know he has never forgiven his error. I think I have, I just don’t forgive my anger at him, he was three. My mother? Not forgiven for that. She should have been watching him.

I haven’t managed to do that for Sweet Thomas Feline, diagnosed with FIV, feline aids, he turned out to be misdiagnosed and was going to be euthanised. My step father dumped him on the mountain. Tom was found by a classmate, though with no color and this predating microchipping, she had no idea he was my best friend. In fact this classmate was kind to me about my horrible sadness. She was the first person to tell me it was okay to cry and to see that tears tend to mean bleeding for me. She wasn’t a friend but she wasn’t cruel. When Tom returned and I called the tag to find out who had had him, she and her parents allowed me to keep him. They didn’t ask for money but were glad that their cat who disappeared was my dead cat and that he loved someone so much he would walk for six months to return to them. Tom didn’t die with me, instead he chose to not move with me one last time, he was old and hurting and there was a lady, I thought she was ancient but likely not, she gave him a home indoors with REAL TUNA. I have yet to remember his face in the window the last time I saw him as he watched me walk away, the window was open, but he stayed inside and yet he was sad to see me go. He may still be alive, though I doubt that. With her his medical needs were taken care of and he was safe from cars, dogs, storms, and so on. In fact Tom became the father of several generations of cat in a town and is essentially their patriarch. Tom is why I believe in steralization. Someday I will tell you how I obtained this cat, who was a champion apple head blue point siamese. It was an adventure.

There are Philip and Lily, Minerva, Backlash, Fox Meowder (yes after the XFiles character Fox Mulder) and so many more. There were each of the kittens that didn’t make it, and there was Colores’ last litter, who died because their mother did too. She may have turned up in my biology class actually, on my dissection table. I did not dissect the cat that looked like my missing cat, I could not. I failed the class over it. I have no regrets. My biology teacher showed us pornography, home made, because that’s of course human reproduction. The school never ordered cats. My cat wasn;t the only one that looked like a missing pet.

Still, as an adult I have been able to protect my cats, I have been able to fulfill their needs. With Nymph I had to ask for help, and with Sprite once before too but I can do that. In fact if I had not learned to ask for help for them, I would not be here today because I learned to ask for me too. In a life of regrets about how my animals were treated because I could not care for them, there are no regrets about the treatment of my cats as an adult.

I also have seen another cat suffering with medications to keep him alive, feeding tubes, and I have had the horror of this cat asking me to kill him. “Just let me die”. I have seen the light lost in his eyes for almost two years now. This cat, is six pounds. His body was meant to be twenty pounds. I think of him when I see that same look of agony in Ny’s eyes. I regret being unable to save him from years of agony. Is it wrong to save Nymph weeks or months? Days? My heart answers, no, because that is love.

Another lesson in love that I am learning.

Lesson the First: Love is not pain, as I learned before.
Lesson the Second: Love means doing what is best for someone you love, even when you aren’t sure you can live with it later, because if this is truly an act of love then it is selfish to not meet the need no matter how sad it makes you. This is why people can break up and still love one another. This is why a mother can go hungry for her children. This is why sometimes you have to say no. It may make you unhappy to do so, but if it is what is right then do it out of love.

Of course that lesson isn’t learned yet and it is one which others claim in defense of horrific acts. In those cases that isn’t love. In this one, deciding that she should not have to writhe in agony and scream for weeks? That is an act of love. It is another piece of the happiness I have given her.

This picture was taken just as I finished this piece. Essay/Decision making process. Now you know how I decide even what to eat. Intensive mental exploration.

This picture is a symbol of love.

a small white kitten curled up with a larger silver and grey cat on brown carpeting. the kitten is a calico with orange and grey spots with a white under coat. Both cats are about the same size and make a spiral.

Hush my sweet, sleep so sweet, true is love and true are you.

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