The Way of Things

It’s difficult to navigate in a tailspin. I’ll be okay. I’m a survivor, so I’ll survive. I’ll move on. It’s been a rough week so this post is to let everyone know I’m putting off some of my online plans for the moment.

The website is shuttered. That’s done. There were so many reasons I wanted it gone, but there were more than a few sharp pangs at the end. The pain wasn’t the worry that I was doing the wrong thing. Instead, there was the sense of unfulfilled loss that comes with what could have been.

For all that, it was what came after that started shredding my composure…

Photo: CA Hawthorne

Mr. Calvin, my lone remaining cat, is gone. I can’t say enough about the compassion and professionalism demonstrated at the vet. Even so, I wasn’t prepared for the moment. Not at all. I won’t go into details about the experience, only its aftermath. I’ve no desire to sensationalize it.

It’s enough to say that I was strong for him for as long as was needed.

For the remainder of that day there was numbness and clinging to rational thought. The next day came after minimal sleep. Even though what was done was necessary, guilt set in. The moment replayed over and over.

Keep in mind that I’m an arachnophobe who, if she washes a spider down the tub drain, then sits on the side and cries. Taking a life eats me inside.

The monster that is insomnia came for me that first evening and hasn’t left. Oh, sleep comes, but it’s faltering and fleeting. I fall asleep, but it doesn’t last. I toss and turn when I do sleep. One horrendous night has followed another, followed another.

Anyone who’s suffered sleeplessness knows what it does to the days that follow.

Yes, functioning at work has become a challenge.

Photo: CA Hawthorne

Mr. Calvin is gone, the apartment as silent as a morgue. All the more so because I talk to pets continually. Between imagination and the desire for conversation, I’ve always talked at length with every cat I’ve had (female cats are the best, actually). Misha had an uncanny and, at times, unnerving knack for providing the appropriate sounding response.

Misha. She’s gone, too.

The silence is crushing. Yes, I’m an introvert, but we INFJs are a strange brand of introvert (extroverted introverts, as it happens). We live for one-on-one conversation, especially if it has depth. My cat-talks, while no substitute for the real thing, were at least interactive and helped keep me sane.

Now, there’s nothing. I come home from work and open my mouth to speak. I fall silent. The lone conversation is in the dialogue I write.

So, that’s it. I have to adapt. There’ll be no more pets. I’m a struggling writer with a rent that climbs each year. Having a cat has become too expensive, as would be a dog, if they were allowed here. Rodents and birds are triggers for my Chronic HP. I’ll adapt. I’m a survivor.

Sometimes I despise having to remember I’m a survivor.

NaNo Cover: CA Hawthorne

Meanwhile, as I always do, and now armed with a new memory I don’t want, I continue writing. Actually, editing. I’m still making my way through the end of Exhuming Truths. Four chapters remain.

Over last weekend when I was sinking low, I fled Exhuming Truths. So near the end the story had more depth than I wanted to face. Instead, I dove into Protecting the Pneuma Key. Mostly, I read, but I did perform some minor editing. I was desperate for the light tone Zepha’s rylls provided.

So, for the moment, that’s where I am. Yet again, my life is changing, as life changes for everyone. It’s the way of things, a difficult chapter before moving on. I’ve been through far worse. I’ll survive.

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