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!

Catnip: My Readers

In my head the title of this post has all sorts of cool robot sounds and lights, it’s half transformer and half comment terminator. Well respondinator. I am still sad, I am still grieving, but I am functional by my normal standard again. I also am well aware I cannot go back and respond to the individual comments of support right now. I know that no one expects me to either, though I try to reply to every comment posted on this blog either publicly or privately. I believe you took the time to write me I should respect that. There are just so many.

I read each one. Each one made me feel loved, supported, and sometimes when I wanted to give up I came and read more of the comments, over and over. Each comment is valuable to me. Each comment is treasured. Every moment when I questioned how much more I could take, there was someone there supporting me. So I could keep going. i could make good choices, I could handle the stress because if I needed to cry, I could either email some of you personally, most of you in fact, or I could write here and I would be supported.

In fact that is just what I did after I realized that I am not alone. I have people here in person and spread across the world who are friends, family, and even really awesome acquaintances that if I really need them will spring into action like emotional support super heroes.

You each are my heroes, you may not feel like it when you seek out words of grief, but groping in the darkness is all there is sometimes and just trying has helped me. I didn’t once get so low I felt suicidal. I didn’t once doubt that there would be another day of living or the value of such things. I didn’t once doubt that I could survive. I did doubt that I could survive without losing my sanity, but, sanity is over-rated anyway.

So this is my reply to each comment. Thank you for your support. I know that though there are only a few words when someone faces loss and they all look the same when you are the one who has to say them, they don’t look the same when being heard. When you really mean it, I know. EAch of you really meant it. In fact, knowing the real support was out there sheltered me from the false support of my enemies, frenemies (I try to avoid having them but some people just don’t let you), and cruel strangers who didn’t understand.

Thank you. I am truly honored to have such a network of fantastic people in my life. I am honored to give you the hard won award for being awesome on this blog. I won’t name names, because the record speaks for itself. (Eventually when there is a certificate for this I will email each of you a copy as well)

A Death in the Family

I can remember the first time I realized I rarely am touched by death, even when it is very close to me. Jason Todd was in Batman’s arms and the only one touched by his death was Batman.

Yesterday morning, leaving a party my Step Brother Talon was in a car accident and died. His friends, instead of calling 911 abandoned him. Could he have lived? Most likely, although we will never know.

This isn’t a PSA. This is just my mention that teens do not belong behind the wheel when drunk. No one does. The highest cause of death for teenagers is DRINKING AND DRIVING. What is the lure of alchohol?

Here is what I remember from my 21st birthday drunk off. Everything tastes like pee or worse. Everything smells like barf or worse. People say the weirdest things when drunk. “You have such lovely eyepatch tits.”

Wouldn’t you rather actually LIVE to be 21? When drinking loses it’s allure? Why not avoid the risk of a ticket, of killing someone, and the guilt that comes with knowing you could have made better choices?

Am I saying don’t have fun? No. I am merely saying stop being a ridiculous entity and try putting the beer away. One way to find out if your friends are friends forevar like you swear they are? Say no to the drinking. Play with their minds a bit. If you can’t have fun without booze, get off my damned roads!

The funeral is on Thursday. I will be there, with the service cat. I will be trying to support my family. I still feel a bit like this is not real. My stepfather is not wearing a cowl, and I do feel sorrow. It still just doesn’t seem right.

My niece put it into words. “My guinnea pig died. Unky Talon Died. Is great grandma next?” My grandmother may not appreciate the sentiment but she is old. She is supposed to be the next to die. The hanging sword isn’t supposed to mark the young right?

Sorry to babble, I know the world isn’t going to stop while I seek understanding, and comprehension. The world will go on, and so must I.

I remember our first real conversation. None of his friends were around, and neither were our parents. He discovered I wasn’t just a two dimensional side show freak and I discovered how smart he was. I was surprised, because in all honesty he didn’t act like he had much of a brain. It turns out being stupid is the cool thing where we used to live.

I will miss him. I didn’t spend enough time around him. I always thought I’d do it next time. I’d visit more. I have a bit of regret there, although there were times when I did visit and he’d say Next time. We all have the person in our lives we next time with. I am not sure this leaves more bad memories than good, or good than bad. We fought often, and I always had hopes for his future I never shared.

It turns out there are now two people I have cried for in passing. Maybe it is a sign of something. Maybe I am just really sad.

Death (Trigger Warning)

I was about to start the latest Episode of Burn Notice while blogging, something I do rather often with the TV. It makes great background chatter and sometimes helps me to think. I was going to write about dealing with domestic violence, because I am tired of the way CNN, MSNBC and the other media outlet stores for “news” are demonizing Rhianna for her choice to stay with her abuser, ignoring the fact that millions of other women in this world do the same thing.

My mother called and asked me to see to it that my Person was awake. I asked her to call back, climbed out of bed, got dressed and then woke him. When we reconnected she did try to ease me into it. My biological father is dead. The man who violated my right to be alive, who raped me, and shamed me for being a woman is dead. Not only is he dead but he suffered. My immediate response was to start laughing.

I am happy to not feel fear. He has found me in my adult life repeatedly. He is the reason I made sure to change my name, that way no surprises could come such as a knock on my door and a punch to my face. It has happened before. I am also triggered. Immediately my brain sought to try and understand the reactions taking place as I began to cry, not for him, but for myself.

There is no funeral, because his Widow is aware that no one would come, except to dessecrate the body. I dreamed for years of spitting on his grave, and eventually if I feel the need, I will visit his grave but it will not be out of sorrow. Thousands of survivors of abuse feel the same fears.

When will my abuser come to me? When will he or she find me and will I live through it this time? Will I survive another beating?

Victims also feel these things, usually knowing they cannot escape. That is why Rhianna’s return to Chris Brown saddens me. It does not surprise me. I hope that she finds a way out. I pray for this daily. I also pray that the shelters for women locally remain. The threats to their existance due to the recession are the worst thing possible.

How can we devalue women and children by taking away their one chance at survival? Usually it takes a trauma so great it nearly costs you your life before you wake up and walk away. These shelters are responsible for my knowing how to not find an Abuser.

My father is also responsible for my ability to appear utterly calm while wanting to kill. At times I do feel homicidal, he taught me that violence is the best answer. I will spend my life facing the specter of his abuse. Part of me is pitying his widow. I pity her because she is mourning him, and I am aware that he abused her before he became too ill to do it.

I mentioned he suffered right? He spent a year in Hospice care slowly dying, his body in horrible pain, and often being neglected. I never thought he would be sick like that, I always hoped for some sort of God type vengeance and it came. He suffered, but his suffering hurt others.

I have cried, but no tears fall for him.
I have died, and been reborn.
He has died, and freedom comes again.
I will fly.
No hawks in my sky.
Clouds pass me by.
I am free.

This poem is dedicated to every survivor. I am sorry if my post is a little more rambly today. I know my life is unchanged by his death. The last time he found me, I was barely able to walk, in pain, and at my weakest. Instead of hounding me, he was suddenly cowering in fear before me. It might have been the really big stick I was using to drag my carcass along at that time. It might have been my letting him corner me, before threatening him with bodily harm, and backing up my threat. That was likely it.

I used my words to tell him just how many ways I could hurt him. He taught me all of those ways, except for those I learned in a Martial Arts class. That’s one of the things I rarely advertise, I have taken martial arts. I know how to hurt people, and how to defend them too. He gave me that.

I know too I am more upset than I can currently acknowledge. My cat woke me up with a back massage and a meow. She’s got her voice back at last and is perfectly well. She is also staying right close to me. So close she is actually sitting on my head as I lay here typing this out. I am also feeling the forewarnings of flashbacks. I can fight them, but, it figures even from beyond the grave he exists. He scarred me. Nothing changes. I just have one less reason to fear.

It is okay to mourn. I just wish I knew how.

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