This may be the last post I write.  I’ve come to the end of it.  And it’s all about a cat.

First of all, I see that my husband destroyed my character in all he did to me.  And for a moment this made me feel really sad–I’m mostly beyond all anger.  And then almost instantly I flashed in my mind to Seiji, who was named after Seiji Ozawa’s baton in a series of jokes that were going around my suite of roommates.  How callous was I? you might want to ask.  I think it was my idea.  But since I didn’t know anything about sex you can’t really blame me.  Sex was just a joke, and not a cruel one.  Or maybe I WAS cruel.  I don’t know.  I guess that’s where this kitten’s sad tale begins.

I thought of him running with my mother’s pet wild raccoon raised from a youngster, who used to suck on its own dick.  My mother thought this was adorable.  I tried to think of a word for how this makes me feel and I couldn’t get beyond kakthrowup.  Talk about inane sense of sexuality and insidious emotional cruelty.

Seiji was (like, later, Daisy) an obviously noble cat, a cat of fine bearing, I don’t see that he could be a purebred to be left by the side of the road like that, but he looked like one.  More than this, he was protected by a British Lord, and a “head boy” (which is the same as senior prefect at an American boarding school) at Eaton; both then Fresh”men” like me, at “Hutton.”  It is the British Lord who, through my latent British citizenship (or subjectship, I don’t know what the correct term for this be) that I worry about.  Last I heard he was a painter north of L.A.  He silently followed me, I am surmising, through my sorry career, giving a push here and a nudge there…for what happened to Seiji.  And what happened to Seiji, happened to ME.

Maybe it gets more complex than that.  I don’t know politics, social politics, and especially the politics of nobility and royalty in England, very well.  (I feel him, the British Lord, shivering with intense relief, out in L.A., or wherever he do be, still watching.  I have words for him that I cannot say here.  And wouldn’t, because I don’t know my place.

And I don’t really understand the ins and outs of this.  Before there even was a Seiji, or rather, an innocent little gray kitten that got stuck with that name, I went to the Freshman dining room for the first time, alone, and a gentlemanly looking stranger (the British Lord in question) sat down with me.  “You have a posh accent,” I jerked out to his first sentence.  He got up and moved away.

Was Seiji bait on a lure ?–I don’t think so but I’m just saying that maybe in the greater scheme of things it was quickly decided by the powers that be that I just didn’t belong at (Hutton) and that obviously I had to be gotten out or quarantined somehow.  This English gentleman and his girlfriend, an Italian princess, were there at a Halloween party where I was dressed as the girl who went out without her panties on (you don’t want to know; but I was naked except for stockings from the upper legs down, wearing high heels and a red cotton blazer.)  I was running for Dove Editor.  arggghhh!  The elegant young woman gave me her vote.  (arggghhh again.)  My high school, Wayland, was present in the form of an upper class”man” friend from their who had matriculated at Hutton ahead of me and her friend, not so much mine, who pulled me aside on the dance floor and informed me “You’re not dressed!”

I don’t know, I guess I’m not very good at telling who my friends are.  That’s where I was at in Maryland.  “Friend or foe?” I asked myself as I wandered through the supermarket with my little son.  How deep it gets.

I don’t know, there’s more to say but I have to ponder this.


The Ugly Part

I see two reasons why my mother may be plotting against my son’s cats.  First, though, let me say that I always blamed my mother for Dorian’s death.

She pointed out that he was missing, then about 3 or 4 days later she said the neighbor (who drove that way daily) had spotted grey fur on the road at the back of the property.  I never saw the remains.  She claimed they scraped him off the road and buried what they got, without my knowing it.  I never thought before to question this.  I blamed my mother for “sending him” that way with her mind, to danger:  none of the cats ever went up that way.

Then there was Cinnamon.  He bit my sister’s hand and after that he was felinus non grata.  He laid alone, unattended, on the driveway, don’t know what he was thinking.  Then my mother decided to lock him up in the bottom of the empty 300 year old house across the drive.  I let him out when I heard his haunting and angry yowling.  He died a natural death.  But not until after I stood up for him when she called the vet in to have him put down.  She refused to.

This is all very scary to me.  I’ve also written about Kitten, who got put down when her kittens were 6 weeks old, in preparation for my sister’s birth.  (Obviously there is another theme in my mother’s psychopathy involving my sister’s importance to the world as we know it.)

As for my son’s cats there are two factors which would suddenly put them in jeapordy on account of my mother.   First, the romantic betrayal.  My son came to my house after they had what was clearly to her a lover’s quarrel.  He plays into this theme.  She checks on him in the wee hours of the morning.  She is also an insomniac.

He has us both in love with him.  I’m the trooper who puts up with their playing.  I pity my son.

The second factor is the Munchaussen by proxy accusation I mentioned in one of the last three posts–I accused her of it when she threatened me with county mental health services.  I was discussing decreasing my medication, with her.  She claimed I was a danger to myself and others, which she may sincerely believe.  I recently attempted suicide again and once kicked the flying f- out of her when stopping anti-psychotic medication.  Way back then, it started with prime ham:  I was trying to feed it to my cats and she tried to stop me–so I rubbed my fingers real quick over the slice I was holding so she couldn’t use it.

Food is another psychotic trigger in my mother’s house.

She said she would have me “picked up” if I decreased the medication without her input.  I am very stable now.

I think my father, whom I’ve barely mentioned, comes into play here.  He’s the one who would submit this possibility.  He’s the one who could be so heartless as to murder? innocent, sweet little cats.  Or make them go away some other way.  I don’t know what to do except play along, because I have seen that cats can be a liability–my mother’s two orange cats give her and my father away all the time.  And the responsibility is a problem for a young adult trying to find his way.  My mother was kind of funny on the phone last night.  Super-nice, in a “sickly” sweet [Br. expr.] kind of a way, and she brought all my favorite foods when she came to my apartment to pick him up.  This is really scary..







Puzzled; Concl.

So anyway I have for long seen that every bad moment in my life, however bad, however long, involved a phone call from my Mom.  An inappropriate one.  A spurned one.  Whatever.  Now I’m seeing this other [still grieving over Thomas, finally, pain in my gut as I have to cut it off to finish this post, that’s the course I chose]  Now I’m seeing this other connection, matters of major moral issues being linked to the lives of cats in my mother’s family. [Not to mention Daisy, who lost her friend and protection in her last year.  I gave a whole three month hospitalization on an acute-care psychiatric ward in Florida (oh god now I see it) over to the lost of my little gray queen cat.  (The “DO”, “DO NOT” voice which was a precursor to my present God-voice, I believe, started as Daisy was dying.  I could never figure it before, what this voice was about. oh God oh God oh God, the relief of realization, the pain giving way to truth and insight.)

So now here it is.  My son has two cats.  Two young, male black and grey and white tigers.  Tigger was a black and grey and white tiger.  All three are/were very beautiful cats.  Tigger was never really my favorite of Daisy’s four kittens.  I guess because he was my mother’s favorite.

My mother is threatening them, as of a call to me this morning.  Because of the “Munchaussen by proxy” threat which was a counter to her threatening to have me “picked up” if I even thought about tapering my anti-pscychotic without her “input.”  (Last thing I remember she was telling me to stop taking all my meds.)  Which I did.  But it didn’t work, because her threat made me too nervous so I had to restart the full dose a day later, last night.

She knows about the porn.  She’s never mentioned it to me but she makes oblique references.  This is a long story that has gone nowhere for my reader but I had to get it out as it whirled through my mind a little while after the phone call from my mother.  She is threatening to take his cats away, saying he doesn’t take care of them.  She puts the cart before the horse to make you panic at the thought of something before she does it, quintilliating the impossibility of the thing before it happens.  Explosive brain-glitching, for me.  I doon know how it affects my son.  We are getting closer.  He used to share his masturbation life with me as a part of his maturation, this morning he got real mad when I approached him with a blanket to cover him up when I went to try to wake him up.  He’s blowing off her threat.  She won’t do anything, he said.  I’m glitching and quintilliating, hence this post.

I have said a lot in these three posts but what is most important, putting it all together, is that I have to forgive my mother everything, because I do understand about getting carried away with a cat.

Somewhere in a book I read this quote:  I wish I could remember how it went exactly but I find I can’t.  Something about how the border between cat and human thins and a person becomes a “keeper” of a cat.





Puzzle, contd.

I accused her, my mother, of Munchaussen by proxy two evenings ago and this has been festering.  I saw all the signs of her starting up the backlash, but she is too old to wait for a time when SHE could put ME in prison, just for saying it.  I left it unsaid, I realize now, whether I was talking about myself or my son, it could be both.

But underlying everything in my life is my mother’s undying devotion to her cats.  She called me up in high school, a rare thing, to tell me that Sneakers, our first cat, a stray she took in, like most of her cats, had died.  Much later she mentioned that there had been a snowstorm and that they couldn’t get to a vet; they had to wait out her natural death, which was apparently an agony for Sneakers.  (Sneakers, a spayed female, had white feet.)

Sometimes I think that was when she started to think I was bad.  I didn’t have a reaction for her.  I was far away in my mind.  Sneakers had always scratched me.

After my son was born I started writing pro-life letters to the local Florida newspaper, and one seemed to have gotten a nod from a major columnist, I wasn’t sure, and was desperate to know.  My brother called and mentioned something about the newspaper in front of him and then let it drop and we hung up.  Minutes later, my father called.  “Thomas has died,” he said.  My mother was too broken up to call this time.  But I took it as a ploy to block my letter-writing.  (Thomas had a stroke, as I remember, and his back half was paralyzed, my mother was terrified to have had to make “the decision,” she said, to put him down.)  I had my own cat-fanaticism.  I have mentioned when Dorian died and how it upset me right up until the time I met my future husband, a painful year.  [I fear there is too much in this story to get it told.]  When the queen, Daisy, my own pure pet, was going right after Thomas’s death (they were close at the end), Daisy was hyper-vigilant, and I flew to Pennsylvania from  Florida to see her.

The news of Thomas didn’t touch me as it was caught in the crux of my rage over having my letters and my vision and my uncertain possible temporary fame masked over; then I chose fame and continued to write letters and never did grieve over  Thomas.  He is gone from me, lost in a crunch of time.  (Tears, now, however dim.)  He was Dorian’s buddy and I looked at him and wept every time I saw him after Dorian died.  It was kind of pathetic.  But oh-so my-mother’s-daughter.  My sister’s horse had died.  I have written about this somewhere in my blogging.  I took a casual attitude and my mother blamed me for my sister’s hysteria when they didn’t drop everything and drive 9 hours as planned, instead taking the more sensible route at my suggestion of having dinner first.  So when Dorian died she just looked at me curiously to see whether I was in any pain.  This involves the Tracey T. problem too as I was at that time still trying to work it out and Dorian’s death coincided with a trick of the Tracey T. problem to leave me permanently glitched in my mind over both, oh god oh god oh god this gets too deep.  I have explained the painful glitching in my mind elsewhere.  (And the Tracey T. problem.)

I left PA with my husband and realized I was glad to be away from the world of fur.

to be contd.





Two last pieces to the puzzle.

  1. My son’s porn habit
  2. .my loss of my son

Going back to the Danny Goke song (sorry Mr. Goke), “Tell your heart to beat again,” I was plaing it over in my mind this morning.  I was thinking yesterday, “if only I’d had this viewpoint, this knowledge, this perspective (faith) when I was 24, and after the Dove, (faith) oh how things would have been different.  Compassion.  Love.  So, although I am a little slow on the uptake (for years I just wasn’t getting it about the porn, I knew it was going on, my Hutton card had to call once to tell me about charges on the card, it didn’t feel as embarrassing to me as it probably should have, though I did my best to be correct); although I am a little slow on the uptake, I finally realized to apply the Danny Goke song to my present situation, my relationship with my son.

Oh the heartbreak.  “Shattered, like you’ve never been before.”  Oh desperation, oh woe, am passionate about this beautiful little baby but I can’t take care of him right, I am so deep in exhaustion and depression, for one thing I can’t breastfeed, and it was so important to me when I was carrying him that I was able to rely on my own body to do it right.  And my father has a stroke, and then my mother is responsible, without supervision, without guidance.  Over and over through the years, she takes him from me, and does I don’t know what to care for him in her own fragile state, and then they went broke.

Hatred sets in.  But my son seems to prefer her to me and I can’t fight on it.  She is well, able, healthy, I am a cigarette-smoking mess, in tears inside,  still trying to learn to cook for him.  So I guess I finally lost him.  Now to drugs.  And porn. And even now, my mother, and the stand-in for my father who we have today.  Every day is a busy court day or medical day for him, or a P.O. day or a drug-testing day.  I have to be grateful to my mother because she is handling ALL of it, which I resented but her running away with him through my incapacity at times, has become state of the art.  So I’ve lost him.  And the Danny Goke song applies. It does.  I’ve been with this all morning, as my son sleeps through noon-time, after being up all night with my computer.  (In bed.)  But I haven’t.  I know I haven’t.  That’s the puzzle and it goes back to, YES!  a CAT!

Tigger, the one who hit the road on the near side of the property when I was journeying back from California to Buffalo to have my son and was completely oblivious.  My mother finally said something, “I didn’t want to tell you..” (she remembered how hard I was hit when Dorian, the all-gray one, died on the back road.)  But I didn’t have time to think about it.  I was trying to take care of my son, a human being, a very dear one.

It is entirely possible that my mother’s dwelling on this was responsible for the bizarre events that followed after bringing my son home to the apartment in Buffalo, when my mother called 5 times in a row (just to hear the phone ring) while I was trying to get him to sleep for a nap.  I felt a weird, slow panic after that, strange feelings of being pulled South, and then, the hospitalization in Maryland.  And then, our move to Maryland, and my crack-up there, which felt like the end (but no, suffering, teasing pain, heart-ache, heart-break, were still to follow.)

I have to admit that I do understand my son’s porn habit, I don’t like it and I fear where it will lead.  But it reflects some things about fantasies my husband and I indulged ourselves in…which all stopped when he was born.  All I ever told him was that I couldn’t have sex, and it was true (ever the little girl with the broken vagina), and he was confused by this.  (“Where do babies come from, Mom?”)

to be continues




Ascribing Blame in a Complicated Situation

So here’s the deal:  it’s my mother.  All along I’ve been asking myself (since a certain point in time), “Who’s guilty here?  Who’s responsible?”  Because I came in for so much of the blame for anything that went wrong.

I spoke to a lawyer from my high school back in the mid-90’s.  He said that psychiatry (and related disciplines such as psychological practice) are considered an “art-form” in the legal system.  It is next to impossible to sue, except in the case of successful suicide (successful, depending on how you look at it.)  You have to demonstrate that the care was sub-standard.  I pursued Sharon Shrensel in NJ, my first therapist, along this line for years because I feared I had fallen into the hands of a sub-par practitioner. and went back and forth with this for years.  Even here, it’s MY MOTHER.  It was her loopy reaction to being called “loopy”, by Sharon, which she heard because I quoted it to her, that set of the chain of unpleasant circumstances that slowly eroded and destroyed my life.  My father’s actions towards me are most certainly a product of things I don’t know about in their relationship.  I know she chased him around the dining room table once, early in their life together.  He had reason to fear her.

Torture, indulgences, masturbation, sweet treats:  these are the things we did and thought about as children.

My father is not responsible.  Maybe I did tempt him somewhere along the way, through HER.

That’s my final conclusion.  More to figure about the cats though. and my mother’s interference with my clan of the cat husband, at the outset and afterwards.  She seduces every man she sees with her eyes and a flip of a glimpse of a little bit of flesh.  She is at this time successfully enrapturing my son.  I learned this last night, when he stayed over.  Not good to go into the details.  I know at the same time she’s making him feel dirty inside.  I remember how I felt, and it is even clear in his body posture, closed up, self-sweet, hands folded–but dirty and scared inside.   I am too far gone along her lonely route today myself to feel anything about it.  I just KNOW WHAT TO DO. because of my years with my husband, thank GOD for him.