Miss Moe

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This is my baby girl, Rinna. Also known as Moe. Or Momo. Himalayan or Ragdoll, she’s a gorgeous little stinker. Also incredibly skittish. I got her for my nineteenth birthday, because there were a lot of mice in our house, and the cats we had were too lazy to go after them. Of course, when I saw her picture, I thought she was adorable. But it wasn’t really until I met her—and saw her cowering in the back of a cage and hissing, that I fell in love. Because she reminded me of myself, and I immediately felt the need to protect her. The first time I held her, she was shaking like a leaf. But she stayed in my lap all the way home, where she proceeded to hide under my bookcase.

I could not think of a name for the little poop to save my life, so I started off calling her Bob, but then it became Moe, after Moe of The Three Stooges. Naturally, that became Momo, because her coloring is like Momo from Avatar The Last Airbender.

See the resemblance?

Anyway, my new kitten had a couple of knots in the fur of her neck. So I pulled her out from under the bookcase, sat her in my lap, and cut them out. Imagine my surprise when she started purring. SO CUTE!

In short, getting Moe to be less scared has been a long journey. She has her safe places, under my bed, on my bed, or under one of my roommates’ beds. And she’s still pretty scared if someone raises their voice too much. But I hope being my cat has been good for her. I know it’s been a good experience for me, because I can’t treat her in the dismissive way I treated cats as a kid. I can’t get in a rage around her. In her own way, she’s making me a better person. And I love her for that.

Besides, look how cute she is!IMG_20131116_173023_466

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Captain

Yesterday, I had to let the vet put my cat, Captain, to sleep. I’ve had him since I was ten years old. Twelve years. There’s no joke when I say that cat was the love of my life. And the day since then has been Hell. I’m taking double my depression meds, but I still can’t make myself do anything. Work, or even eat. I’m not crying anymore, but I’m a numb, melancholy mess.

I grew up with him. He was the only one I felt was always there for me, no matter what. Usually, he was there when I didn’t want him, but that didn’t matter. He’d just sneak onto my lap when I wasn’t paying attention, anyway, purring contentedly. Or he’d steal my pillow when I was sleeping. Sit on my phone or keys so I couldn’t find them. Help me write at night. Beg for me to share my veggies.

At least, this time, I got to say goodbye. And he’s out of pain. That’s what’s important. I can get past the rest of it. Sure, it’s gonna be damned hard, but I’ll make it.

But I’m going to miss my funny-looking baby.

Friggin’ Depression, and Random Rambles

Welcome back to my Rantings, Ramblings, Ravings and Musings. Aren’t you so glad to be here?

Yeah, that makes two of us. I feel your pain.

My poor roommates. They’ve had to deal with me, since my job ended, being crankier than normal. Crankiness is me in the pits of depression. I don’t get sad, just irritable.

My counselor’s been working with me on this, helping me realize how this is quite often my inner child, triggered by that which I deem to be unfair. Because I didn’t have a very fair childhood, at all, and I wasn’t really allowed to just be a kid.

Oh, woe is me.

Anyway, I’m still cranky as hell. Because life is unfair. I have a headache. That’s unfair. Everything hurts. Also unfair. I don’t have a job. Also unfair. I can go on. And on. And on.

I went to a dance a few weeks ago. It sucked. First, because I had to go alone, and only knew one person there. Second, because depression. I had to go hide in a corner for a while and just chill, and then fend off the awkward “are you okay?” questions from concerned passersby who happened to stumble upon me.

Friggin’ depression.

My cat, Captain, had to have dental surgery, because of unfortunately rotten teeth. I’ve had that cat for twelve years now. He’s quite honestly the love of my life. And every day, I have to face the fact that he’s getting old, and I’m going to lose him one day.

That also sucks.

Friggin’ depression.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Scott, too. (Friend who committed suicide four months back.) It’s really hard, because I miss him, I’m pissed as hell at him, and I still have those wistful suicidal thoughts at night, but I annoyingly promised myself I wouldn’t do it, because he made me realize how freaking selfish it is, and I can’t do that to everyone. I mean, think of the funeral costs. That’s enough of a deterrent. But, honestly, I’m still perfectly okay with dying. I’m just not actively seeking it.

Betcha know what I’m going to say next.

That’s right. Friggin’ depression.

I’m trying to watch my language, as my roommates have instituted a “Swear Jar,” and I don’t want to lose the money I’ve got because of a few strong words. Mormons, sometimes.

But, hey. At least right now it’s just the f-bomb. I can even get away with the blatant use of my middle finger, right now. So I’m okay. My freedom of speech isn’t in that much danger. But you can thank them for today’s use of milder language.

I’ve also discovered that I am a valuable resource to my fellow-writing roommates. For instance, one of these roommates was writing a literary story for a class, and I helped her make it less boring by putting excellent elements of drama into it, such as a narcissistic mother. I am their go-to person for abuse and mental illness research, even if they don’t freaking want it. I will shove it down their throats if need be!

By the way, any aspiring writers out there: RESEARCH IS YOUR FRIEND! ALWAYS DO THE RESEARCH!

Anyway, friends, followers, or random people out there, thank you for tuning in. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming. (Saying that makes me feel powerful, okay? Don’t judge me.)

And, just once more, for the sake of my amusement:

Friggin’ depression.