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




Clan Chattan

I don’t think I will ever have it settled about the Clan of the Cat, all the cats in my life and what happened to Daisy’s kittens and the little grey cat in Boston, and what it means about my life and my marriage.  The most salient feature of cats is their mystery.  I understand that through some incidents of real life stranger than fiction, I learned not to treat cats like human beings, something that tended to happen in my mother’s house.  I learned not to touch them in a human way.  My son, Clan Chattan by blood, keeps his cats well, even though he lives under my mother’s roof.

Maybe it’s like the Zodiac, or fortunes in Chinese cookies, or other things I thought about a great deal of which one psychologist said, “that just complicates things.”

Maybe I don’t have long enough to live to put it all together, or maybe, once I let go of this writing, I’ll see it.  I want to say that maybe at the heart of it I’ll see Daisy, bringing both Heaven and Hell on me like a cat out of an Edgar Allen Poe story.  But I doont believe in a cat god any more, and my Christian faith is STRONG.  I see Marmalade, and Dapples, the two best friends I ever had; that I’m not a cat lady any more, that I’ll never have ANY pet again, but that the mysterious cat may always elude us.


I see Patsy S.: my sister, my psychotherapist, my friend Sally, n Daisy and her kittens.  They’ve all come together here.

As I lay in bed moaning (see Bad Hot Dog Day) my old fiend Sally came back to me.  I cried as I haven’t ever been able to.  Tears from the heart, tears from the gut, tears, warm tears and now a little later I am up and I have the funniest feeling of warmth through my middle, as if it were busted for years and is now healed.

I see that there were both negatives and positives in each of these life-long relationships, that I was often misled in my naivety.  I didn’t see that Sally was a competitor, or my sister; even my psychotherapist, who admitted that she felt insecure around me; I didn’t realize that she was jealous.  Daisy was special, very sweet, but we had our negative moments and I wonder whether she took my mother’s attitude, they were friends, and kept a distance and a curious speculation about me.  In all these relationships I placed great trust and in all of them it was broken; with Daisy it was broken by me.

Anyway a sickness can lead to insight.  There was a Saint, I can’t remember her name, was it Julian of Norwich?  who prayed for a great illness and found that one did come upon her and in her experiences of almost dying she saw magnificent visions of Jesus.  And in my first semester in college, in a course called “Modern Intellectual History,” or something like that, I opted for the option to read novels about illness, and these have been very important to me throughout my life, especially “Tender is the Night” by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I am finishing this post the next day, Monday.  My illness continued throughout the night, and I slept and dreamed intensely all day today, missing an eye appointment.  The next post, “Clan of the Cat,” was taken from this one, and wraps up this blog it seems; this blog continues from 5 years of writing online about life, psychoanalysis, my family, my marital family.

My last dream was about shit.  Just like at the end of the novel August from 1983, about a psychoanalysis, which my psychotherapist had me read.  I was sitting on a toilet in a lake, and the shit kept coming and coming.  Sally and Ty and the rest of the old crowd were there watching.  I filled up the whole area of the lake and then there was a thick dirty foam covering it.  Obviously I was still sick.  The foam wouldn’t dissolve or dissipate.  I woke up remembering it plus the end of the dream which I have now forgotten;  I went back to bed again after eating a bag of frozen mixed vegetables (microwaved), and laid down with my eyes closed but did not sleep as I was afraid to dream again.  Now I’m up and feeling better.

Shit represents needs, an old friend from the state hospital once told me.  The psychologist at the hospital in California told me I was suffering from too much “old shit.”

So maybe my psychoanalysis if finally over.  I’m just half-dead that’s all.




Bad hot dog day

So I went to a discount store to do my grocery shopping and ended up with a trash bag full of bad food.  Then I went to my regular grocery store and purchased three full gallons of the same iced tea I bought at the discount store (one of the few things that was good, and I really liked it.)  It was on sale, three for x dollars.  Then I bought hot dogs, buy one get one free.  I already know that this pricing is a gimmick for getting rid of bad food.  Somehow my experience at the discount store carried over.

So right now I am arguing with my father.  I am sick as a dog, and the Lord used my illness to show His face to him.  My father listens in on my conversations “with myself.”  He regards my God-voice as illusory, or just me talking to myself.

(sick as a dog)

My thoughts were so scrambled that he could clearly hear the method and logic of the voice from above which guides me.  So of course when it came back to me and him he got combative.  First he dislocated my jaw.  “I’ll have you talking two languages,” he said, meaning he’d have me talking out the other side of my mouth.  I can still feel it.  Then he broke my neck.  My father is old.  My coming to reason has been hard of him.  “This” he made clear to me, “is what I’ve been wanting to do to you for a long time.”  He understands, finally, that God is watching.  (Now I feel my jaw slipping back into place.)  So he’ll be crying.  What this has to do with the clan of the cat I have no idea.  I’m sick as a dog.  I guess it just goes to show that my father has nothing to do with the clan of the cat.  Everybody tried to gang up on my mother, but now HE’ll get it for a change.  I just don’t know which one of them is worse, or whose fault it is they both got so bad.  My mother pulls a nice face but then she backs of of it.  My father hides his feelings and you just don’t know with him.  But I have a feeling that he will comes through this with a vision informed by God as mine is, through illness (from his stroke; you know about mine.)  And maybe he’ll be the one to put everything back into place.  Through it all, hope begins to prevail.