Me - version not good

Remember the cat I found? Sprout? Cat blogging sounds nice – how he really liked the feather toy that Unnamed Friend brought him. He purrs constantly when I’m in the room. His ears look good finally. The fur is growing back over his sore spot. He eats well but is a bit messy. He meows only when he needs something and always rises from his sprawl in the window when I come through the door.

I don’t love him. (It's not going to be the good kind of post.)

I found him when I was hurt over the first phase of this loss, and he’s been around – though rarely seen – through this new phase that doesn’t appear to be ending, though I have moments where it eases. I wondered, as I watched Unnamed Friend pet and play with him on Sunday night, what the hell was wrong with me.

“Will you take him?” I asked, because… I don’t know. I don’t love him for some reason – it’s like my heart is rejecting any newcomers. And I’m left befuddled over the sensation, or lack thereof. It’s completely foreign to me. I don’t decide to care about an animal – it’s automatic and immediate. And I acted upon what I expected to feel – gave him milk (which, yes, not a good idea. Sorry, cat people.) and tuna and water. Put him in the guest room and bought cat supplies. I scoop the litter twice a day and find the Fresh Step clumping kind smells like laundry soap. I’m fond of it. I’m taking care of him, and I pet him. But I don't spend much time with him. I don’t talk to him.

That might be it – what concerned me when Unnamed Friend shook her head and informed me that I now have a cat. I’m silent when I’m in the room – am silent as much as possible, actually. So instead of my typical friendly chatter – asking how he is, what he’s doing, his plans for the evening, complimenting his pretty coat and paws – I’m quiet.

“Hey.” I say when I walk in the door and pause to let him scamper across the bed to greet me. I’ll sometimes offer a “Don’t” when he tries to rub against the scoop as I’m cleaning his litter, then pet with my left hand while I work with my right. I offer food and fresh water while he stretches to put his paws near the top of his plastic food bin. And with an “OK, then.” I generally leave the room. If his family called, I’d give him back with a sense of relief, I think.

It’s just so strange. So unlike me. Yet it’s real. I can’t summon the love and I’m bothered on an abstract level.

I went for ice cream with Unnamed Friend yesterday afternoon. She walked to meet me in the place I knew rather than a much more convenient spot that left me confused. I’m hardly sharp lately though and could see myself wandering, lost, alone, looking for something I wasn’t sure I could find. It made me sad. So we met near my office, then backtracked to find ice cream.

“What did she give you? If you don’t me asking.”

“I don’t mind. I’m not sure I remember though.” I frowned, trying to bring something from memory as I dug my spoon into more Chocolate Therapy as we walked toward a bench. “Celexa?” I asked. “Does that sound right?”

So we talked for another minute and I told her I’d dropped off the prescription. I sat in the chair in the exam room earlier that day, told the doctor I didn’t like having blood drawn, wasn’t big on these exams. I’d likely cry – I cry when I’m nervous and pathetic. She was sympathetic, and we continued to talk for a little while as I tried to relax.

“I’m not very stable.” I finally confessed. “I, um…” Shaking my head, I swallowed against the constant lump in my throat. If I’m not holding back tears then it’s nausea. It’s becoming rather normal, though it’s still unpleasant. She cocked her head at me and waited.

“There was this guy.” I finally whispered. “And we ended things, and I’m sad.”

“Were you serious?” She asked quietly.

I opened my mouth, closed it, wondered how to explain. I finally shook my head and nodded my thanks for the tissues. But I’d brought my own.

“It was for me.” I said quietly. “I thought…” And I shrugged because I was still working through what I thought. Smiling involuntarily when I wrote out how happy I was. Nodding in understanding when I explained why I hung on. It makes sense to me. Still. “I wanted…” I tried to continue and looked at her, confused.

“No.” I finally said more firmly, gathering my composure. “I don’t think it was.”

“Do you think you’re depressed?”

I nodded, hating myself for admitting it for some reason. But I am. When I’m curled up on my bathroom floor at least once a day, weeping, in such pain that I can’t really comprehend it? Holding on to furniture as I pace after reading an email to stabilize myself against wracking sobs? It’s rather difficult to deny. I’m not doing well at all.

“What would you like to do?” She continued, softly. For the sadder I become, the worse I look, the more fragile I must appear.

“I don’t like therapy.” I whispered. “I cry a lot.” Then I choked out a laugh and wiped my eyes, momentarily grateful for the Bare Minerals that resists water quite well. The dark circles under my eyes are quite impressive lately. I tried hard to cover them and didn’t want that powder to wipe away. “Apparently I cry with any sort of doctor.”

“How about antidepressants?”

“I didn’t like the idea before. I’m a little afraid of them, I think. Will I be less me? I like me. And I want to be able to quit relatively easily. Someone told me Paxil was a bit tough to stop. The man I… Anyway, I don’t want to have to take it if I start feeling better.”

So we agreed that she’d write a prescription and we’d start at a very low dose and see how it felt. I didn’t even have to fill the prescription until I was ready, she said, rubbing my shoulder and telling me I’d be OK.

I decided – on the drive to the office – that I’d fill it. Take them. I’m so miserable, after all. Not coping very well at all. I remember thinking that I had shattered. There were pieces of me lying all over the place and I had to find the energy and hope to put myself back together. Find the good pieces, probably save the bad pieces because they provide interest and balance, and try to remember how they used to fit. Focus. Work without having to put my head on my desk and grasp for any sort of acceptable professional behavior. I need some help.

But what if I’m not me? I wondered, worried. Then blinked with pain when I answered myself with the thought that being me is working so very well lately. This huge capacity for love of which I was so pleased? I can’t find it. Can’t connect to it. That was the part I liked – the emotional connection to everything around me. Without it – feeling disconnected and flat – what exactly was I trying to save by avoiding the pills? I was going to take them.

And I cried and cried – sitting at a traffic light - as I realized that part of me may have died. Or at the very least was so wounded by my decisions and actions that it’s hidden away – I hope it’s secure and safe. But my rational side failed to protect it. And if it wasn’t gone, I couldn’t muster enough hope that it would return. So I’d take the chance that the SSRIs might kill or diminish that Katie-ness. Not because I wanted to – I loved being me – but because I couldn’t do it anymore. Wasn’t strong enough. So I whispered my apologies to myself and wiped away tears as the light changed and it was time to move forward again.

I stared at the prescription bottle last night, having picked it up yesterday while Unnamed Friend waited with me. There were moments where I felt normal – brief conversations when I was distracted. Email from friends who were unaware of my pain and with whom I could tease and laugh. I just talked to Charlie and as I listened to his news, I was fine. Felt like me.

“It only happens once.” My officemate said as I slumped at my desk yesterday afternoon, blinking back tears of her own at years-old pain. “It’s only this bad one time. Then you’re smarter. You protect yourself, don’t let people in. They just hurt you.”

I frowned, but nodded at her. I hadn’t meant to make her cry. I was like a painful disease – infecting everyone with whom I come in contact. I don’t mean to – it just happens. I’m quiet – not all there. And people notice and ask, and I can only deflect the questions for so long. The pain, you see, is all there is. There are moments of normalcy – where I can laugh and talk and think. There are sparks of anger, but I haven’t felt one today. Not a real one. It’s basically this giant cloud of misery that presses on me from every side. It hurts – even physically. I open my eyes after trying to sleep and I see it, remember it, moan and try to escape it. The moments of escape become vital. So very important to try to regain any sort of recognition of who I am right now. I crave them. Am apparently willing to hurt people to get them.

I've brought up bad memories for Unnamed Friend. Found myself gasping with indignation at my thought that she could handle them. I was the one suffering now. I needed company and if she couldn’t handle me, she should say so. Wrote a pretty brutal post this morning and waited with narrowed eyes for him to read it. I wanted him to know that I found him vile and malignant. Perhaps I could transfer some of this pain he caused. After I firmly pushed back tears waiting for church to begin on Sunday, I found myself unmoved at receiving communion. What was wrong with the bread? I thought as I moved back to my pew. I hate the wafers.

And I don’t love my little cat.

I made Jill cry later yesterday afternoon. Stopped by to get a phone message and asked how she was.

“How was your appointment?” She asked, because I’d let her know I was coming in late. “Sit.” She said when I shrugged then tried to leave. “Are you doing OK?”

I shook my head. “It’s too much.” I told her, swallowing hard and blinking back more tears. “I just can’t take any more. There was Winnie and I miss her and think about her and it’s sad. And there was this guy and I hoped, but he wasn’t, and I can’t. I miss my parents – being home. I wanted my own family, but I don't think... Can't hope... I don’t know how to do this. So I’m taking something to help. I think.”

“You know what I think?” She asked, and I stopped staring at my shoes to meet her eyes. Shook my head, took a tissue.

“You don’t know who you are.” She told me. And I blinked at her, unable to process such a thing. I know myself. Or thought I had. But maybe he was just mirroring back this confusion that existed in me. The insecurity and self loathing for not being good, pretty or loving enough. I couldn’t make a relationship work – nobody loved me and there had to be a reason why. I can’t stay steady, I thought. Keep bouncing around trying to figure myself out.

“Maybe not.” I whispered. For if I hadn’t known myself before now, this new creature that seemed willing to do anything to avoid further distress was certainly bothersome. I didn’t know her – didn’t like her.

“You need to look in a mirror.” She advised. “See yourself. See what we see. You’re beautiful. Confident. Intelligent. Loving. Sweet.”

“I’ll try.” I said because now she was wiping her own eyes. I didn't want to upset her further by confessing my inability to do such a thing in the near future.

What I see when I look at myself now though? I’m broken. But I’ve watched my family fix things for years. I can repair myself. Carefully search for the pieces, puzzle them together, then carefully glue. It won’t be the same – not exactly – but I think I’ll be OK.

In the meantime, certain traits have defined me over the past days - they must be controlled. I sat today and thought about him and I understood. If his story was true and he had been wounded so deeply – much, much worse than I am now – then he might have been suffocating. So desperate for air that he was willing to push me under so he could breathe for a moment. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s evil – certainly don’t want to believe him to be so. But if he was looking for an escape, I can understand that better than I wish I could.

I told Unnamed Friend to stay home tonight – I’d be fine. If I needed her desperately, I’d call because I know she’s willing to help. I’m unwilling to be the person who uses her – who disregards her pain and the consequences of said pain so that I can avoid being alone. I edited this morning’s post after I experienced the satisfaction of seeing him read it. Hoping he understood me – that it hurt him. That isn’t what I want, I decided firmly – not for him or for me. I told him to stop reading if it was painful, and sighed with relief when I realized I meant it. Don’t hurt. Just be OK. I would like that. And I picked up little Sprout and kissed his head for the first time.

“I’m working on it.” I told him as his pretty green eyes peered up at me before he jumped to the bed and lifted his head for me to stroke. I’ll find all my pieces and keep them safe until I’m ready to glue myself back together. I’ll take the antidepressants to see if they help, not because I’m punishing myself for making a bad decision. I will forgive him – not just because I read Matthew 5 aloud this morning, as directed by my devotional, and nodded along. I think it’s right to forgive – soon – because I know my own flaws. Am displaying them quite vividly here lately. The desire to do that is there, though the ability isn’t just yet.

“I want to love you.” I told Sprout and he continued to purr. “I will, I think. Someday.” I scratched under his chin and smiled at him. “Soon. I hope.”