I really don’t know what to call this. I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve sat down to just write out my thoughts, reflections, feelings. And, it has been. I’m not going to try to write this any sort of coherent order; instead I’m going to get it all out. So maybe we can also call this a lancing of the self. My head feels crammed with so many thoughts, experiences, and potentialities that are stuck.
I can’t believe it’s December. Yesterday was Molly’s Gotcha Day. We’ve had her for four full years now, and I cannot cannot believe it’s been/only been four years. My dreams this season have been filled with all our beloved dead, hanging out as if they’re always around, as if nothing has changed. I had more than one dream of just snuggling with Neech, which I suspect was more than a simple dream, only to wake up with my pillow soaked and my cheeks clammy from dried tears. Last night I dreamt that we were getting ready to move from the house we were renting back to where we are now, and Dream Beth (Dream Beth is a jerk; Beth is aware. Dream Jo is usually a jerk too, so that’s at least even. We regularly commiserate with one another how our dream counterparts are assholes. Which is better than waking up mad at the other, and staying mad at the other.) kept letting the cats go outside. So I’m running around doing a head count, and Zerk was the only one missing. So I went out to call him, and he came running. Up the fence that split the yard, across the fence to near where I was, and then he leapt from fence into my arms with enough force to make me stumble back — and wake up.
Beth has been attending the beloved dead shrine. I’ve been mostly ignoring it, since placing Neech’s remains upon it. Not consciously, just . . . It hurts. It hurts so much. And it’s impossible to be sad about things when I’m home, because Wil is so very obsessed with me, and it’s hard to be sad when you’ve got a cat that is following you around, stroking your face when he can reach it, asking for up by lifting his arms straight up, wrapping his paws around your neck to hug you, writhing like a wiggly puppy on your chest when you’re snuggling. This cat, who was so scared when he first went up for adoption that he was vomiting, who was so scared when we went to meet them that he stayed in his kennel but did eventually try to bat the string toy, who was so afraid of faces for days after we brought him home — he is so brave, and so comfortable with his family, and so affectionate, and so obsessed with me, that there’s no room for sadness. (I’m not complaining. The feeling is mutual.) He and his sister are both such happy cats.
And I want, so badly, to have Neech’s head pillowed on my hand, his forehead against mine, as we snug quietly, closely, with his claws digging in so slightly into my skin because he could never, never seem to hold without his claws out. I want Zerk and his loud underwater cricket purr. I want Grim and his insanely ear-shattering, ear-plug defeating grating ‘I’m hungry’ cry. And I feel like they’re around, thick as thieves, these days, and I’ve just been . . .I dunno.
I’ve been pretty non-spiritual of late. Polytheist in that I believe in multiple gods, but agnostic in that I don’t give a shit about them, for the most part. That’s stated in harsher terms than I truly feel. I’m mostly indifferent. And that’s spilled over into how I relate to my dead, and I think that that needs to change. I’m dissatisfied with that.
Been dealing with a significant injury since late September. I’m still not back to 100% — with the understanding that my 100% is something like 80% at best. Hip injuries and shoulder issue — tissue damage, no broken bones, but it was pretty awful for a while. Multiple mini-stretching sessions have been a part of my life since October, and it’s getting better.
Writing . . . Writing is going extremely slowly, and I’m okay with that. I’m trying to discover how I enjoy writing. Because it’s not the same way I used to enjoy writing. But I’m being less analytical about it, and more just doing it as I feel the desire to do it. Maybe I’ll finish stuff, maybe I won’t. Either way is good. I sat down to talk about that. That perhaps I don’t like writing these days. That perhaps my writing might go back to just being for me. Because I start something, and I love it, and then the story tells itself to me, and then I know the story, and the discovery phase seems over and the urge to write is gone? But also, maybe I just work a lot, and am tired a lot, and am trying to figure out how to get the decompression time I need while still being able to be there for my family. I think, the latter. And I think I’m easing the hell off my expectations for myself. Because I’m tired of things not being enough. And I’m doing that to myself. So, yeah. Yeah.
I’m picking my way slowly though Divergent Mind, and there’s been a LOT of laughcrying. I’ve had to put it down more than once because it’s gotten way too uncomfortably close to home, and it’s got me thinking about things. I think maybe I’ll post about that separately. This is definitely a book I want all my loved ones to read.
But for now, I’m going to back to my knitting, and back to my podcast watching, and back to snuggling with my girls.
Be kind to yourselves, and I’ll do the same.
Strip Me Back to the Bone 