Back to the cat-god

Egyptians believed that cats were gods.  Edgar Allen Poe attributed to them strange powers.  They are associated with witchcraft.  In my life I have come to see that cats do seem to have certain powers over us.

I don’t know whether there is also a horse-god or a dog-god, or a wasp-god, but I do know that my present experience of the last 48 hours leaves me wondering whether the mother of that kitten I abused in college, now dead, left a lasting spell on me.

He was abandoned by the side of the road, a stray, but of noble bearing.  His mother didn’t leave him there, his owners did.  I wonder what happened to them?

I have been up for the last two days with unbearable discomfort in my crotch–I have bad nerves in my clitoris.  This comes partly from injury but also partly from consequently masturbating.  The masturbation got out of hand during my life.  I masturbated next to that little kitten.  Now my clitoris, already damaged, is keeping me up at night.  A terrible bout with it last night, queasy all day in that area, now it’s after four in the morning; after sleeping most of the day I stayed up late, and then still couldn’t sleep.  I laid down and did stretches to soothe the area.  Now I have taken extra Klonopin and taken my m0rming meds, which include Prolixin and Lamictal, a neur0logical drug.  These help the feeling of confusion in that area.

I was thinking, I wish I could go back.  To before I had the abortion and went away with my husband; but this leaves my son stranded.  I’m thinking now, I wish I could go back and not do that stupid and unthinkable thing with a little kitten.

Dumber than dirt.


Figured (what I Pondered)

Got the whole sitch figured OUT.

The girl dreaming of going out forgetting to put her underwear on, was the inner me.  I’m older and wiser now, and dream with my pants on.

My mother had the same dream, don’t know whether she shed it as an adult, or not.

My father has Asperger’s syndrome, which is attenuated autism.  According to my recent new therapist (whom I have had to stop seeing because she couldn’t tolerate my coming in without a shower,) who was the one who said this about my father almost immediately. She is extremely intuitive and a gifted therapist, and I had enough of her to finish my psychoanalysis.  She said Bill Gates has Asperger’s also.  So I didn’t mind mentioning it to my mother and Dad.

So I call them.  My mother, on the other hand, is a psychopath.  In all seriousness, this does exist.  Her brother was odd, over-emotional, and was hospitalized throughout his adult life.  She, on the other hand, laughs inappropriately, often, and also cries inappropriately, not knowing why.  I believe they both suffer (past tense for my uncle, he passed away at 50) from “English brain rot.”  Something bred in all that fog and dew.  And rain, rain, rain.  In my mother’s case, hitting up against America at 20, and then saddled with two kids, and having an ego, and trying to defend it, it turned psychpathic.  I have a mixture of their symptoms; my brother and sister both escaped the Asperger’s, my sister has some of the psychopathy.  Overall, with everything taken together I am probably a sociopath.  A curable one.

Anyway, in addition to all this, or possibly because of it, they never learned to distinguish animal “mating” from human sexuality.  This would be a philosophical matter with my father, who saw us as humans as entirely a progression from the ape.  But I don’t think they really understood about human courtship, about higher love.  I think that they were doing it like animals when they made me.

I take my brother’s abandoned rape attempt when I was about 12, looking back, as instruction in human mating.  My brother is very human.  He taught me how to have sex,which I would need to know.  As far as Seiji goes, it didn’t seem strange or bad to me at all, at the time, what I did.  Mating like animals turns into sexually inappropriate behaviour with animals.  And in the end I realized, in leaving off posting yesterday, that it wasn’t ever really about Seiji, it was about going out undressed that destroyed me with the Dove crowd and everybody else too.  These things get around at Hutton, an intensely social place (like many universities.)

Problem solved.  I don’t know what anybody else thinks but as far as I think, I am reinstated into the human family, and I can go where I want.  Which was the issue all along.  In my ill, paranoid, and dislocated condition NOBODY would have me.

My son and I had a good talk last night.  We talked for the first time.  It was wonderful.  What could be better than this?

I remain ecstatic.

My vision is complete.AdobeStock_67872745 (1)_1







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..







The Balance, the shifting scale

On the other side of the balance (see my last post), there is my sexual compromise through being kneed in the crotch by my brother when I was a small child.  Because I was unwanted.  It showed in the physiognomy–I was born with a large mole (wart) left of nose and a white patch in the center of my lower lip, and scrawny little butt as noted in my post, Nasty Fuck.  (That’s what I became in my life, even for my husband, which suited him, in the way of things.)  I was to blame for being born, you could say.  My brother certainly held it that way and I can see how awful it must have been for my mother, stranded alone in a foreign country in an uncertain marriage with two, two children only fifteen months apart.  The first a boy and I can understand, from my own feelings about my boy-child how sensitive this relationship is, the relationship between a mother and her first-born son.  and then, what?, a little girl in the mix?

But it’s not my fault I was born, I didn’t have the sex or make the marriage that made me.  God did.  So I could say that My parents f’d up in God’s eyes by treating me as they did, or I could take a more radical and forgiving view, that it all worked for the best for everyone concerned through the principle of God that says it always would, for those who followed Him according to his purposes.

Certainly I’ve had an incredible and astonishing life, when I look at the big picture, to set against the day-to-day screaming (which was literal in California with my husb.)  But the pain for me that remains unresolved (will be the working of the rest of this blog book) goes against my mother and she’s the one who’s going to take the fall for it.  Not me.  This I pray in the Holy and Mighty Name of my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.