I feel broken and thus I have broken my husband and my marriage. At one point this weekend I felt like I was a three year old having a senseless temper tantrum. When Fred asked what was wrong, what I needed, I simply stood with my back against the refrigerator almost stamping my feet crying “I don’t know!” The only thing I do know is that I’m broken.
Sometimes I feel like I am one of those jigsaw puzzles that you try fruitlessly to put together time and time again only realizing in the end that you were missing a piece from the start. Or maybe worse, there is a piece from another puzzle in the mix.
I am and will never be happy. I have heard these words from many people throughout my life. I do believe they are right. Nothing can be simple in my head. Be in the moment. Be happy with what you have. Look at how lucky you are. Trust me, I’ve read enough self help books and I wish I could. If and when I get close to that point I find myself bored and complacent. Then my mind starts in. When I have too much idle time in my head…it’s not a good thing. “What’s next” always seems to crop back up and there I go getting into trouble once again.
My husband is a great man. He is a wonderful husband and an even greater dad. He is my best friend. After twenty-one years, he still makes me laugh everyday and still kisses me goodnight every night. He loves me with his whole being. This I know. There is no doubt.
I, on the other hand do not feel worthy. For some reason or another, I have never felt that I am connected completely to anyone or thing. There is a deep hole that I cannot fill. Fred believes that it is because I couldn’t have kids. I’m sure that is a huge part of it.
I sometimes am overwhelmed at the love Fred gives me. I feel so sad, guilty even, that someone can love me as much as he does. Especially when he knows that the void still remains, untouchable.
And so, I believe this weekend, I broke both him and my marriage and I am truly sorry for that. I have no answers. I don’t know where to go for them. I have looked within and I still feel like the three year old who simply doesn’t know.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I've got that numbing feeling.....
I've got that numbing feeling..... me, xannax and guns. Not a good prescription.
Between the ages of twenty-six and thirty one I was lost. Literally. I had become anorexic and with that came depression. A friend, Bev, convinced me that I really did need help. So I inquired around. I did my homework so to speak. From the first appointment I was prescribed Xannax. As my appointments came and went, my dosage was increased. I started not liking the feelings and the non feelings. Each time I expressed that this just wasn’t working. The doctor explained…yet again…that I hadn’t reached the proper dosage for me yet and up the prescription. On and on it went.
In three or four of those years, I moved seven times. Finally, I just gave up and moved into my car for a year. It was easier, but there really isn’t much room in a Honda Prelude. Trust me.
I began having, to me, logical thoughts. To others, not so much. I would be having a perfectly logical conversation with Bev and she would stop me mid sentence and tell me to think about the words I was putting together. Holy crap! What nonsense. Things like, I’m driving down the road going seventy. If I open the door, how far will I roll? Or, it’s midnight and I’m at work cleaning the deli slicer. The blade is exposed. Just how hard would I have to slam my head into the blade to penetrate my scull? Honest. These thoughts sounded quite logical.
One day I went to work in the deli. I said hi to Bev and walked over to wait on my first customer of the day. She wanted one pound of bologna and one pound of American cheese. Pretty generic in the land of the deli. I went and got my trusty plastic glove and while putting it on asked the customer again what it was she wanted. She told me. I then walked down the deli case, picked up the cheese and asked the customer how much she wanted. One thing accomplished. What else did she want? I asked again. Walked down the case, picked up the bologna….how much? With that, Bev politely excused me over to the table where she had been working on cheese for the cheese case. She took the rest of the customers. Honestly, I don’t even remember this happening at all. Bev told me about it many months later. What else don’t I remember? What else might I have done?
I do remember driving to my appointments. “Three pieces of paper, three pieces of paper”. This sentence would keep repeating itself. The first piece of paper the doctor wanted me to sign so that I would commit myself. The second piece of paper was to allow six to ten shock treatments. The third was yet a stronger prescription. I do remember him telling me twice that he hadn’t ever had anyone on such high dosages of this stuff. HELLO!?!?!?
I don’t remember what my lowest weight was. Odd I know for someone that is anorexic, but remember, I am living in my car. Not much room for the scale.
One night, after having moved in with a motorcycle gang, (a few stories there…), I was cleaning my gun. I figured that I only needed one bullet, so I put it in the cylinder and closed it. I put the gun to my head. I pulled the trigger. It took me a minute or two to realize what I had just done. I put the gun back in its case. I brought it to a friend that I knew had a gun permit for the state of Connecticut. I told her to never let me see or touch that thing again. I now know why God made me dyslexic. The cylinder rotated the opposite way. I went home. Popped another Xannax. Opened a big bottle of cheap wine and woke up sometime the next afternoon in a fog. As I laid there and the fog slowly went away it came to me what I had done the night before. What I was capable of.
At some point I must have called my brother, Rick, because he and his wife Kath were at my door. They live five hours away. The only thing I remember, the only thing that really stuck was when Kath said “What do you want me to tell Brandie?” (my niece) “How do you want me to explain this to her because I certainly don’t have the words”
I knew then that what I was doing wasn’t working. I stopped taking the Xannax. Big mistake! Guess you’re supposed to be weaned off of that stuff. All the drinking I started doing wasn’t helping either. Bev, seeing just how desperate things had become, quickly got me in to see another doctor.
My first meeting with the new doctor was weird. I wasn’t sure about some things, okay most things. I ended up giving him Bev’s phone number. She had seen it all pretty much. She knew the truth. Guess she had spoken to him twice. I never asked about what. I was diagnosed with eight things though I can only remember six. I was STILL anorexic and depressed. I was now also suicidal, chemically dependent, border line alcoholic, (I remember asking if that was like being almost pregnant), and obsessive compulsive.
While struggling through this time, Bev was always there beside me. She kept repeating, “One minute at a time. We’re gonna do this, you and me, one minute at a time”. She kept me alive.
A few years later, I lost Bev to lung cancer.
Between the ages of twenty-six and thirty one I was lost. Literally. I had become anorexic and with that came depression. A friend, Bev, convinced me that I really did need help. So I inquired around. I did my homework so to speak. From the first appointment I was prescribed Xannax. As my appointments came and went, my dosage was increased. I started not liking the feelings and the non feelings. Each time I expressed that this just wasn’t working. The doctor explained…yet again…that I hadn’t reached the proper dosage for me yet and up the prescription. On and on it went.
In three or four of those years, I moved seven times. Finally, I just gave up and moved into my car for a year. It was easier, but there really isn’t much room in a Honda Prelude. Trust me.
I began having, to me, logical thoughts. To others, not so much. I would be having a perfectly logical conversation with Bev and she would stop me mid sentence and tell me to think about the words I was putting together. Holy crap! What nonsense. Things like, I’m driving down the road going seventy. If I open the door, how far will I roll? Or, it’s midnight and I’m at work cleaning the deli slicer. The blade is exposed. Just how hard would I have to slam my head into the blade to penetrate my scull? Honest. These thoughts sounded quite logical.
One day I went to work in the deli. I said hi to Bev and walked over to wait on my first customer of the day. She wanted one pound of bologna and one pound of American cheese. Pretty generic in the land of the deli. I went and got my trusty plastic glove and while putting it on asked the customer again what it was she wanted. She told me. I then walked down the deli case, picked up the cheese and asked the customer how much she wanted. One thing accomplished. What else did she want? I asked again. Walked down the case, picked up the bologna….how much? With that, Bev politely excused me over to the table where she had been working on cheese for the cheese case. She took the rest of the customers. Honestly, I don’t even remember this happening at all. Bev told me about it many months later. What else don’t I remember? What else might I have done?
I do remember driving to my appointments. “Three pieces of paper, three pieces of paper”. This sentence would keep repeating itself. The first piece of paper the doctor wanted me to sign so that I would commit myself. The second piece of paper was to allow six to ten shock treatments. The third was yet a stronger prescription. I do remember him telling me twice that he hadn’t ever had anyone on such high dosages of this stuff. HELLO!?!?!?
I don’t remember what my lowest weight was. Odd I know for someone that is anorexic, but remember, I am living in my car. Not much room for the scale.
One night, after having moved in with a motorcycle gang, (a few stories there…), I was cleaning my gun. I figured that I only needed one bullet, so I put it in the cylinder and closed it. I put the gun to my head. I pulled the trigger. It took me a minute or two to realize what I had just done. I put the gun back in its case. I brought it to a friend that I knew had a gun permit for the state of Connecticut. I told her to never let me see or touch that thing again. I now know why God made me dyslexic. The cylinder rotated the opposite way. I went home. Popped another Xannax. Opened a big bottle of cheap wine and woke up sometime the next afternoon in a fog. As I laid there and the fog slowly went away it came to me what I had done the night before. What I was capable of.
At some point I must have called my brother, Rick, because he and his wife Kath were at my door. They live five hours away. The only thing I remember, the only thing that really stuck was when Kath said “What do you want me to tell Brandie?” (my niece) “How do you want me to explain this to her because I certainly don’t have the words”
I knew then that what I was doing wasn’t working. I stopped taking the Xannax. Big mistake! Guess you’re supposed to be weaned off of that stuff. All the drinking I started doing wasn’t helping either. Bev, seeing just how desperate things had become, quickly got me in to see another doctor.
My first meeting with the new doctor was weird. I wasn’t sure about some things, okay most things. I ended up giving him Bev’s phone number. She had seen it all pretty much. She knew the truth. Guess she had spoken to him twice. I never asked about what. I was diagnosed with eight things though I can only remember six. I was STILL anorexic and depressed. I was now also suicidal, chemically dependent, border line alcoholic, (I remember asking if that was like being almost pregnant), and obsessive compulsive.
While struggling through this time, Bev was always there beside me. She kept repeating, “One minute at a time. We’re gonna do this, you and me, one minute at a time”. She kept me alive.
A few years later, I lost Bev to lung cancer.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Drunk Driving
It had been one of those weeks, months actually, okay year. I had just gotten divorced. Had a ton of bills, moved a whole lot and was working three jobs. I worked in a factory, also in collections and as a part time cop.
Well I happened to only have to work one job one of those weird days and a friend asked me out for a drink after work. Drink? Sure!
We sat there for a long time drinking large glasses of house wine, eating Goldfish, and bashing men. When we decided to leave, I ambled out to my car and started to drive the two towns over home.
I pulled into the driveway and realized that I no longer lived there, I had moved. I went on to the next place only to realize that I had moved from there also. Shit, same with the next place. Think, think, think! Okay, deep breath. You’re a cop. Look at you’re license for the address. Shit, shit, shit…it’s a post office box! Think, think, think!!!! Then an Oprah light bulb moment hit. Vast realization came over me. You asshole! You’ve been living in your car! You’ve been home the whole damn time!!!!!
Never drove drunk again.
Well I happened to only have to work one job one of those weird days and a friend asked me out for a drink after work. Drink? Sure!
We sat there for a long time drinking large glasses of house wine, eating Goldfish, and bashing men. When we decided to leave, I ambled out to my car and started to drive the two towns over home.
I pulled into the driveway and realized that I no longer lived there, I had moved. I went on to the next place only to realize that I had moved from there also. Shit, same with the next place. Think, think, think! Okay, deep breath. You’re a cop. Look at you’re license for the address. Shit, shit, shit…it’s a post office box! Think, think, think!!!! Then an Oprah light bulb moment hit. Vast realization came over me. You asshole! You’ve been living in your car! You’ve been home the whole damn time!!!!!
Never drove drunk again.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Over Eating
What exactly does that mean to me? It sounds dumb, weird even to spend time contemplating. But for some reason, it has my attention.
I was anorexic for about five years. I had gotten down to about 118 pounds when someone took my scale away. I still lost more. I remember buying some jeans. Men's. They were size 28x34. They were too big. I didn't have to undo them to take them off. Belts puckered too much and would hurt by the end of the day. I wore suspenders. One day while at work I was standing at my bench looking down at the unit I was building. With both the way the pants hung and the lighting, when I looked down I could see all the way down inside my pants to the top of my left knee. What an odd feeling. I’m 5'7". I was in my late twenties.
My first marriage I weighed at the most, 124 pounds. My husband told me I was fat. A couple of other guys, pretty much the same thing. I remember having some ice cream or candy and one of them walking behind would start singing the Jello song. "Watch it wiggle" How disheartening.
Now, several years and many pounds later, I overeat. It doesn't matter if I've just had a big meal. It doesn't matter if I know that I'm not even hungry. I eat. What a weird concept for an anorexic.
What am I really doing, and more importantly...why? Once again, I feel, I'm being just like my parents. I'm stuffing the emotions down, swallowing them up so no one can see. I'm afraid to feel. Afraid to let anyone really see? Or am I more afraid of what I might see, feel, learn about myself? So many things stuffed for so long. Can I possibly get a handle on it now? I must admit it's quite an overwhelming thought. Maybe that's what all this writing is about. A start.
I was anorexic for about five years. I had gotten down to about 118 pounds when someone took my scale away. I still lost more. I remember buying some jeans. Men's. They were size 28x34. They were too big. I didn't have to undo them to take them off. Belts puckered too much and would hurt by the end of the day. I wore suspenders. One day while at work I was standing at my bench looking down at the unit I was building. With both the way the pants hung and the lighting, when I looked down I could see all the way down inside my pants to the top of my left knee. What an odd feeling. I’m 5'7". I was in my late twenties.
My first marriage I weighed at the most, 124 pounds. My husband told me I was fat. A couple of other guys, pretty much the same thing. I remember having some ice cream or candy and one of them walking behind would start singing the Jello song. "Watch it wiggle" How disheartening.
Now, several years and many pounds later, I overeat. It doesn't matter if I've just had a big meal. It doesn't matter if I know that I'm not even hungry. I eat. What a weird concept for an anorexic.
What am I really doing, and more importantly...why? Once again, I feel, I'm being just like my parents. I'm stuffing the emotions down, swallowing them up so no one can see. I'm afraid to feel. Afraid to let anyone really see? Or am I more afraid of what I might see, feel, learn about myself? So many things stuffed for so long. Can I possibly get a handle on it now? I must admit it's quite an overwhelming thought. Maybe that's what all this writing is about. A start.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The freedom of my religion
My dad was brought up Catholic. My mom Protestant. They decided to raise us in the Protestant church. There was no getting out of going to church every Sunday. Except, that is, on the occasional Sunday that my dad would wake me up early to work with him on the apple orchard. Thinking I was getting out of church was usually short lived as my dad always found a way of still getting a lesson in there somewhere for the day.
When I was fourteen, everyone was given a permission slip for our parents to sign so that we could join the church. I thought my dad would be really happy that this was something I wanted to do. So, that evening after dinner, I gave him the paper to sign. He looked at it, put it back on the table and said that he would not sign it. I was quite confused to say the least.
He explained it like this. It was he and my mom's intention that I get a good base, a good foundation. Now that he felt that I had it, it was my turn to go and decide what was truly right for me. If for the next few years I wanted him to take me to the catholic church, he would. A synagogue, baptist, advent, temple....he would. It was truly up to me, but I had to study something. If there was no place near for me to go, then I was to get a book. We would then talk about it later.
To this day I treasure this gift. This freedom to truly believe what resonated within. This is what I have come to believe.
All religions are but a mere different interpretation of the same thing. And so I am free to pick and choose the pieces to fit my belief system. I do not feel the pressure of conforming to believe something that just doesn't "fit" with me.
What about God? Do I believe that there is an almighty being, and almighty power? Absolutely. Do I necessarily believe that his name is God, or Alla, or Om, Mohammad, Buddha.....? No. So when I use the name God, it comes from my foundation, but the context of it is very different for me. Although some of my beliefs are very Christian, some are American Indian, Tibetan, or very Eastern in philosophy.
An example. You have a doctor. Within his office walls, he is the almighty being, the almighty power. It doesn't matter who enters his office, he is still the almighty power. Now of the people that come into his office, some may call him Doctor. Some may call him by his first name. And still some may call him Dad. Each of these people have a different interpretation of who the man is. One is not more right or wrong than the other, just different. It also matters not what you call him. If the intention is for him, he'll answer.
This, I guess is how I view God and religion. I have my own set of beliefs. I feel that it is important to take the responsibility to occasionally review your belief system. Let the truths that no longer serve you fall away and find a new truth to take it's place. This, is where I find myself floundering. I have come to believe that just because we become older and wiser, it doesn't necessarily mean that the lessons get easier.
Thank you, Dad, for the true freedom of your gift.
When I was fourteen, everyone was given a permission slip for our parents to sign so that we could join the church. I thought my dad would be really happy that this was something I wanted to do. So, that evening after dinner, I gave him the paper to sign. He looked at it, put it back on the table and said that he would not sign it. I was quite confused to say the least.
He explained it like this. It was he and my mom's intention that I get a good base, a good foundation. Now that he felt that I had it, it was my turn to go and decide what was truly right for me. If for the next few years I wanted him to take me to the catholic church, he would. A synagogue, baptist, advent, temple....he would. It was truly up to me, but I had to study something. If there was no place near for me to go, then I was to get a book. We would then talk about it later.
To this day I treasure this gift. This freedom to truly believe what resonated within. This is what I have come to believe.
All religions are but a mere different interpretation of the same thing. And so I am free to pick and choose the pieces to fit my belief system. I do not feel the pressure of conforming to believe something that just doesn't "fit" with me.
What about God? Do I believe that there is an almighty being, and almighty power? Absolutely. Do I necessarily believe that his name is God, or Alla, or Om, Mohammad, Buddha.....? No. So when I use the name God, it comes from my foundation, but the context of it is very different for me. Although some of my beliefs are very Christian, some are American Indian, Tibetan, or very Eastern in philosophy.
An example. You have a doctor. Within his office walls, he is the almighty being, the almighty power. It doesn't matter who enters his office, he is still the almighty power. Now of the people that come into his office, some may call him Doctor. Some may call him by his first name. And still some may call him Dad. Each of these people have a different interpretation of who the man is. One is not more right or wrong than the other, just different. It also matters not what you call him. If the intention is for him, he'll answer.
This, I guess is how I view God and religion. I have my own set of beliefs. I feel that it is important to take the responsibility to occasionally review your belief system. Let the truths that no longer serve you fall away and find a new truth to take it's place. This, is where I find myself floundering. I have come to believe that just because we become older and wiser, it doesn't necessarily mean that the lessons get easier.
Thank you, Dad, for the true freedom of your gift.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Mom and Dad and Emotions
I really love my Mom and my Dad. I really miss my mom. Guess I'm not as angry as I used to be. Just kinda still a little empty.
Growing up, looking back, my parents were always there for me. Mom stayed home with ALL the kids. Dad worked a lot, but I never felt that I didn't have access to them if I needed them.
I've been thinking a lot about the emotions that I grew up with. What I am remembering so clearly now, I never noticed then.
Dad said son-of-a-gun once. Boy was I scared. I had never heard him swear. That was as close as I ever wanted to get.
Mom would get mad at us kids for one thing or another, nothing serious. We knew where we stood. I usually got in trouble for laughing, especially when she was trying to discipline my brothers.
But true emotions, I'm at a loss. I do remember Mom getting mad, taking a deep breath, shaking her head and walking away. Not expressing. Not letting out what she was really thinking. What would have come out if she let go? I remember when Grampy died. I was fourteen. We were at the funeral parlor. She burst into tears; Dad put his arms around her. Then, as always, I saw her stifle the feelings and "pull herself together."
Guess kids do learn so much from their parents even if no one is even aware. I love my parents. I couldn't have asked for better. I always liked the fact that my "imagination" was never stifled, but now I wonder if it was at the cost of something else.
Growing up, looking back, my parents were always there for me. Mom stayed home with ALL the kids. Dad worked a lot, but I never felt that I didn't have access to them if I needed them.
I've been thinking a lot about the emotions that I grew up with. What I am remembering so clearly now, I never noticed then.
Dad said son-of-a-gun once. Boy was I scared. I had never heard him swear. That was as close as I ever wanted to get.
Mom would get mad at us kids for one thing or another, nothing serious. We knew where we stood. I usually got in trouble for laughing, especially when she was trying to discipline my brothers.
But true emotions, I'm at a loss. I do remember Mom getting mad, taking a deep breath, shaking her head and walking away. Not expressing. Not letting out what she was really thinking. What would have come out if she let go? I remember when Grampy died. I was fourteen. We were at the funeral parlor. She burst into tears; Dad put his arms around her. Then, as always, I saw her stifle the feelings and "pull herself together."
Guess kids do learn so much from their parents even if no one is even aware. I love my parents. I couldn't have asked for better. I always liked the fact that my "imagination" was never stifled, but now I wonder if it was at the cost of something else.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Angus and me
It's 5:30 pm, 4th of July weekend, 2000. My husband, Fred, has gone to Montauk, NY. to bring his sister back to home to live.
He is on the phone. "I've got a present for you." He then hands the phone over to our niece.
"It has four paws, is black and white, and really cute."
"Okay, cat or dog," I say.
"Cat. Can he keep it?"
"He's a big boy. I told him that the next animal in the house was his choice. Of course he can."
At 8:30pm same evening I called to say goodnight as they will be starting out very early the next morning. Fred gets on the phone. There is some hesitation. Then he just blurts it right out. "Well it needed a buddy!"
"That's fine," I say, "What's it look like?" Off on a rant he goes explaining how cute they are, what colors they are, how they plan on transporting them.
Although we've had the conversation, I hang up really not sure how many kittens are coming to live with us. Man, I love that guy.
Well, I meet them. ALL of them. There’s Fred, my sister-in-law, mother-in-law and the FOUR kittens. Oh, what a relief, two of them are my sister-in-law’s. We go unload the truck and drop everyone off respectively. It was a long, hot trip. The black one doesn't look so well, but recovered well once home, watered, fed and loved.
What to name them? I figure that they are his cats, he should be the one that has to name them. BO and GO? (Black One, Gray One) Can you imagine? Here Go. Go, come. Poor thing… Are they male or female? What are their personalities? And so for quite a few days, they just are. Then he decides. Black one, Angus. Gray one, Ash.
We soon found out that they were both females, but Angus seemed attached to her name by then, so it stuck.
They didn't take long to train us in the way it was going to be around our house. I think we learned well. It was also readily apparent that Ash had attached herself to Fred and Angus to me. They both have very different personalities. They are both very loving. We had discussed it. They are pretty close to being perfect. I'm so glad he brought them home.
It is now April, 2010. I can't imagine not having the two of them. As I sit and hold Angus who has her place up under my neck with her paws and head on my right shoulder, it's quiet in the house. She has taught me so much. I'm not even sure that I can even begin to put it into words, but I feel that I must try. Maybe, once in words, I can start to learn something that has eluded me for as long as I can remember. I must learn to love me, accept myself as Angus loves and accepts me. Can this be done? It honestly scares the hell out of me. Am I worthy? Is that ego and pride talking?
Angus' view, I guess simply put, would be feed me, love me, let me grow. How can I start doing the same for myself? It sounds so simple. But to act on it, I'm not quite so sure.
Okay, one step at a time. Feed me. Just what is it that I wish to be fed? Come on Grey Feather, (my spirit guide) help me out here. Spirituality, self acceptance, open heartedness as well as open mindedness.
Love me. No, it's not ego or pride to love myself. As a matter of fact, it's quite ok. It's not selfish to go do or not do something that I want to rather than what someone else wants to. Stop with the expectations. Everyone else’s’, that is. Stop and think. Stop and more importantly, I guess, listen. Listen to me. Listen to myself, my needs, as carefully as I listen to Fred's needs. To Angus' needs.
Let me grow. Take the time I need to grow. Read, meditate, find classes to take, friends to be with, learn from.
I am a very lucky woman. I have a very loving, understanding husband who is extremely supportive. He helps to keep me on track when I start wandering aimlessly. The blockages, and obstacles, have been put there by me. I can put the blame nowhere else. They have been there for many years. They are heavy and burdensome. Maybe soon, with Angus and Fred, I can start.
He is on the phone. "I've got a present for you." He then hands the phone over to our niece.
"It has four paws, is black and white, and really cute."
"Okay, cat or dog," I say.
"Cat. Can he keep it?"
"He's a big boy. I told him that the next animal in the house was his choice. Of course he can."
At 8:30pm same evening I called to say goodnight as they will be starting out very early the next morning. Fred gets on the phone. There is some hesitation. Then he just blurts it right out. "Well it needed a buddy!"
"That's fine," I say, "What's it look like?" Off on a rant he goes explaining how cute they are, what colors they are, how they plan on transporting them.
Although we've had the conversation, I hang up really not sure how many kittens are coming to live with us. Man, I love that guy.
Well, I meet them. ALL of them. There’s Fred, my sister-in-law, mother-in-law and the FOUR kittens. Oh, what a relief, two of them are my sister-in-law’s. We go unload the truck and drop everyone off respectively. It was a long, hot trip. The black one doesn't look so well, but recovered well once home, watered, fed and loved.
What to name them? I figure that they are his cats, he should be the one that has to name them. BO and GO? (Black One, Gray One) Can you imagine? Here Go. Go, come. Poor thing… Are they male or female? What are their personalities? And so for quite a few days, they just are. Then he decides. Black one, Angus. Gray one, Ash.
We soon found out that they were both females, but Angus seemed attached to her name by then, so it stuck.
They didn't take long to train us in the way it was going to be around our house. I think we learned well. It was also readily apparent that Ash had attached herself to Fred and Angus to me. They both have very different personalities. They are both very loving. We had discussed it. They are pretty close to being perfect. I'm so glad he brought them home.
It is now April, 2010. I can't imagine not having the two of them. As I sit and hold Angus who has her place up under my neck with her paws and head on my right shoulder, it's quiet in the house. She has taught me so much. I'm not even sure that I can even begin to put it into words, but I feel that I must try. Maybe, once in words, I can start to learn something that has eluded me for as long as I can remember. I must learn to love me, accept myself as Angus loves and accepts me. Can this be done? It honestly scares the hell out of me. Am I worthy? Is that ego and pride talking?
Angus' view, I guess simply put, would be feed me, love me, let me grow. How can I start doing the same for myself? It sounds so simple. But to act on it, I'm not quite so sure.
Okay, one step at a time. Feed me. Just what is it that I wish to be fed? Come on Grey Feather, (my spirit guide) help me out here. Spirituality, self acceptance, open heartedness as well as open mindedness.
Love me. No, it's not ego or pride to love myself. As a matter of fact, it's quite ok. It's not selfish to go do or not do something that I want to rather than what someone else wants to. Stop with the expectations. Everyone else’s’, that is. Stop and think. Stop and more importantly, I guess, listen. Listen to me. Listen to myself, my needs, as carefully as I listen to Fred's needs. To Angus' needs.
Let me grow. Take the time I need to grow. Read, meditate, find classes to take, friends to be with, learn from.
I am a very lucky woman. I have a very loving, understanding husband who is extremely supportive. He helps to keep me on track when I start wandering aimlessly. The blockages, and obstacles, have been put there by me. I can put the blame nowhere else. They have been there for many years. They are heavy and burdensome. Maybe soon, with Angus and Fred, I can start.
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