I know I will be with her soon, I feel a withering inside. A withdrawal from the actual. An inward turning, accepting that I am finite. That, perhaps, I did not survive the whirlwind physically unscathed. Yet they find no marks on my inner parts, no tracks or tracing of the substances that erased me for so long.
A flare, they see, a tiny one on a parietal lobe of my intact brain. A brain that holds the me that is not intact, in fact.
But rather attacked, now in hiding…
It’s actually more comfortable in here. The pain never lessens, in it’s trek across the miles of my nervous system, nor does it miss a millimeter of bone and sinew. A flow of acid lava, burning- forever burning as it winds from joint to joint: knuckle to wrist, ankle to tibia, sacrum to facet…then bounding up each vertebra, it flows thru my frame in fiery rivulets. Bolts of white-hot lightning like razor-tipped arrows shoot out to all outposts; Shoulders to hands, elbows to hips, knees to burning feet.
Oh yes, I am still alive. But the living has begun consuming the will, digesting the drive, devouring the effort.
Leaving me on bed, on couch, on drugs, while dinner burns alongside my future stardom.
Funnily, I am ok with that. Meals I greedily prepare loose luster on my disappointed tongue. My mental monuments stare at me, unfinished and armless while I gaze through them to a universe only I can see…
The Weight is mine, mine alone. I tried to offer some lame kind of comfort, but I could feel the other pet parents staring right through me...
.
A sad situation…
Pippy herself did not show anger, or hatred; I wish she had. Her gentle, knowing glance as the vets assistant lugged her away unceremoniously drove a spike through my heart.
“Please take care, ” I whispered, so obviously a vile animal destroyer to the ten plus persons waiting for their babies.
“WHAT,” the huge matron stopped in her tracks and did a slow spin, somehow holding onto dear queasy Pips in the jostling cage.
All attention swung in slow motion, onto my horrified visage, the paint splattered clothes just screaming “loser”, “sinner” and “jail her”.
Now struck dumb in my dismay, I gathered the last tiny drop of spittle I could muster, and in a voice only heard by Pippy and God, I said loud and clearly,
” I love you Pippy, and I’m sorry..”
She heard, she knows and I will carry her in my heart always..
How fo I say Goodbye?
CHAPTER 5
You see, Pippy had some terrible kind of mental breakdown that coincided with the introduction of my neighbor’s cat, Lilly, being brought into the home.
Almost instantly Lilly pounced on and actively hunted Pippy, terrorizing her. The change in Pippy was swift. No longer social, friendly and well adjusted; Pippy became nervous and unsettled. Hiding, flinching and neglecting to groom. Or, the flip side: overgrooming. To an unbelievable degree.
Now Pippy would spend hours, every waking moment, actively pulling out her fur. Rapidly, her underbelly was devoid of fur except for a few lonely tufts clinging onto her for dear life.
Then, when I thought this was the extent of her problems: a disturbing new issue. Out of the blue, on a given Saturday, Pippy had some sort of twitching fit that escalated to her biting at herself and racing full tilt around the trailer. I was also beside myself, deeply regretting my lack of funds to take her to a vet. I called the SPCA to see if they would treat her free, they said, “No, there is no program.” I was at, what I thought at the time, feeling ultimately that I had caused her distress. I alone bore the guilt.
Pippy knows: it’s me who betrayed her…
In the aftermath of this episode, Pippy began hiding in the top.of my closet, in my studio. This posed no issue- I was glad she found a cubby hole. Until she refused to come out at all. Not to eat, not to be petted and, most devastating, not using her litterbox.
Too many offshoots and alleyways. Let’s move along a few years to 2020…Pandemic lock down, I’m working on Zoom with some friends. Suddenly, Donna breaks in with a plea,
” Would anyone like a Maine Coon kitten?”
All the girls pipe up with ooohs! and aaahs! The idea of a warm, fuzzy kitten is SO appealing, so comforting in this lonely isolation. I was down to just one outside cat, Frenchy. She was pushing 16, Fogerty and Ollie had died the year before. In the interim, I had also lost 2 of my beloved dogs to cancer and old age. My remaining little Shih Tzu, Kleo, had become much less active as she aged. Perhaps a kitten would be a nice addition to my little homestead.
My little “not a Maine Coon” kitten as delivered within 3 days. Super fuzzy, a golden cloud, he is a special boy. I name him Zignatious Horatio Needlefingers, and I fall in love. The new routine wasn’t too bad. One catbox, one kitten, one dog to feed and vet seemed manageable.
Things rapidly changed. My kind heart was about to be sorely tested. Approximately one month later, I rescued a half-grown boy cat who I found crying his little heart out in my neighbors front hedges. It was after a “fireworks” holiday; he had obviously run away in the horrible onslaught of noise. My biker neighbor had been feeding him lunch meat, but he needed proper care. I bundled him into the house and he quickly became the Zag to my Zig. They were now happy playmates. But the vet bills and catboxes had now doubled.
WHY DID I ALWAYS HAVE TO BE THE SAVIOR? WHAT CHARACTER DEFECT MADE ME A SUCKER FOR LOST ANIMALS?
Looking back now, I understand the pattern. I had been a mother to my alcoholic, abusive husband. The caregiver for my beloved Mom during her illness- even before. She was so needy all my life, telling me she “lived through me”. Finally, being mother/ caregiver to my dear Dad. Caring for his every need as his madness progressed into a second childhood and excruciatingd death. All those years of caregiving through all those events made me feel needed, wanted, and useful. Loved.
The convoluted and traumatic relationships and disfunction had left me with a void, a pit inside me. And I was filling it with warm, furry little bodies. Ever the caregiver, ever the mother. My self-worth depended on having people and/or pets to care for.
Oh Joyful heart, where are you today? From so much light I now feel only pain.
Where did my optimism run away to hide,
Why now this dread that cannot be denied?
She thought she had come away unscathed, from the turmoil, the abuse
…and rage.
But disease was just below the surface all along, and now the Piper must be paid…
Oh senseless one, unreasonable and blind, don’t mind your feeble, fluctuating mind, because as your marbles leave you, they are cast: to the wind and to infinity, at last.
She had packed up all her winter clothes, put away her childhood toys, went to bed under many uncertain memories
I am trying to hear my authentic self, which is so buried under old baggage deep inside my chest. Losing a 19 year old friend to suicide 2 weeks ago has shot me back to dire times in my own youth. Knowing that she inhabited that black place I once did makes me terribly sad. It’s such a lonely room, with a locked door and impenetrable windows made of mirror that infinitely reflect your anguished face, your broken heart, your pleading eyes.
Such icy tundra you forge through, never advancing. Biting wind in your face you try to reach your loved ones, who are just ahead. You see them in the distance, you shout at them to wait, you want to be in their embrace so desperately, but the wind whips your voice away; they walk on. You struggle to move forward, but the icy ground and frigid cold freeze you through. This is the feeling of isolation, the inability to share your pain, and the terrible longing for love that led me to wanting to leave this life…
I must fight against these lies my mind whispers to me in lonely places. I wish Katy had been able to fight off the demon of depression. But her battle is over now. I will never forget her.
***Trigger Warning* This post contains adult subject matter such as mental illness and loss of life by one’s own hand***
ANOTHER FRIEND GONE:
She is young, strong and beautiful. A gymnast, so good that she teaches the sport to younger girls. Not long out of high school, not quite an adult; just shy of 21. Working an interim job while she figures out which direction her professional life should go- perfectly normal for a young woman…right?
To all outward appearances Katy seems perky, energetic and happy. Her easy laugh and warm greetings endear her to all she meets; she makes friends so easy. She couldn’t have a bad day; she’s at the top of her game as a young adult…right? I mean, isn’t she?
I think to myself, what a lovely young woman, she’s got everything going for her. I envy her youth and vitality for a minute, then I’m swept up by her joyful personality. I am now counted as a friend, too. She loves my cats, all animals in fact. She loves all animals. She also enjoys talking about food; preparing it, learning new recipes. She always asks us what we had for lunch or dinner the day before, to the point that I commented once that it was an obsession of hers. I was half joking, and a little annoyed. I realized right away that I hurt her feelings, so the subject was changed and we are fine again, all is well…or is it?
Then I learn the truth. Katy is not fine, all is not well. She is battling a huge monster, one that I am all too familiar with. I can’t believe it, but now I recognize the signs.
You see, I was in a locked psych ward once. I was young, skinny, pretty. Going to Community College in Pittsburgh. Happy, lots of friends, getting through my last year of high school. A steady boyfriend. Sure, I liked to party, and it all seemed fine to my folks. But it was not fine inside me.
I was severely depressed, and an alcoholic: a full blown addict. I hated my appearance, and would make myself vomit to keep from gaining weight. I would think dark and deadly thoughts and had attempted suicide more than once. No one understood , I never let them in. I put up a fantastic facade while I was dying inside. I had been molested as a child, raped at 13, was pregnant at 15 and my Mom had insisted I get an abortion, which she set up the day after I told her. I was so sick and sad, my boyfriend was abusive and I jumped out of his moving car one night when he wouldn’t drop me off at my house.
At the emergency room the Doctor noticed how dilated my pupils were; the dam broke as he gently questioned me- I told him everything. He helped me talk to my Mom about my drug use, my depression, being suicidal, the whole sad situation. I remember her and I at a Friendly’s, eating ice cream afterwards, how shocked she was. She had no clue. She was busy all the time, so was Dad ..how could they know???
I really worked at getting well in that stint at the Psych ward. Thirty days of intense therapy and I stayed clean for a few months after. But the mental illness and addiction raised their heads and followed me for another 17 years.
I’m alive now at 59. Clean, sober and correctly diagnosed as Bipolar. I take my meds and treasure my life.
But dear Katy is not alive. She took her own bright and beautiful life yesterday. The pain was too much. I’m so sorry, Little Sister.
I wish I could have helped. I wish you were still alive, just one more day. One more chance to choose living. Because it DOES get better, my dear friend. It would have, and you would have looked back one day, maybe with your new baby in your arms. Looked back over the dark days and thought, ” I’m so glad I didn’t take my life that day. I would have missed all these beautiful days since…”
You would be so grateful that you waited a moment, said a prayer, told someone you were hurting, made that phone call, put that syringe down, listened to that tiny voice inside saying, ” Save me, please!…”
Please, if anyone out there reads this , if you are contemplating suicide, please take that moment to stop and think past the immediate pain. Give the future you a chance at finding joy in living. Just stick around one more day, for Katy. For your Mom, or best friend. For your cat, or for your kid brother. For some other lost soul to hear your story some day…
Out of the Gutter Art 
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