I don't have American pride

“I’m so proud of be an American… “

I grew up hearing people say that; hearing them singing, “God bless the USA” or “God Bless America”; hearing the derision and pity in their voices whenever they spoke about “those people” who weren’t blessed enough to be born in America. Even those poor Canadians weren’t quite good enough, they were from Canada, after all—if god really loved them, they’d have been born in America.

This sort of thing never sat very well with me, only because it seemed so weird. I mean straight up, odd as shit, weird! Who in the hell is all excited about where they’re born?! It’s not like you told your parents before you got here, “Oh, I’d like to have you reserve a suite in Such-A-City on this day, in order for me to make my entrance into the world.” Nope, you’re just born wherever your mother happens to be at the time that hormones and baking time are right.

I supposed I was proud, myself; but not because I’d put any thought into it, rather because I’d been spoon-fed the idea “For god so loved America that he sent the Founding Fathers to Philadelphia to give their lives for the Constitution, so that through them, we could all be free—“ yeah, it really did have that whole John 3:16* reboot thing going on, too. I mean, I was taught and for a time believed, that god picked out Washington, Franklin, Adams and the rest almost with as much care and important imbued upon them as Jesus Christ. They were like mini-Christs sent to earth, just to save us from the eeeevil King George III.

I never sat down and thought about what it meant, that phrase, “I’m proud to be an American”. I never thought about it until about ten years ago when I heard comparisons between the US and Europe. It never occurred to me that the phrase was anything more than some weirdly American version of patriotism—I mean, everyone in the world feels some form of patriotism, I’d think-- even long after I’d ceased to be proud of my birth country.

Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m not proud of be an American. I haven’t been proud of it for about 20 years, and don’t expect that to change any time soon. It started right after we got back to the States from Germany, when I realized how small the world of my classmates really was—how tiny they perceived things to be, how much many of them actually believed that the world ended at the city/state/Country’s limits. I just couldn’t wrap my head around that, it’s so… limiting—so self-centred, so very American.

I never wanted to be considered small minded, or slow, or a stupid American, or an idiot, or ethnocentric (even before I knew that word existed). I wanted to be kind, and open and helpful and caring, and… well, uber-patriotism doesn’t lead to those things. Neither does super-duper-pride. So that whole proud-American thing kinda started falling off with me. It faded, little by little until I was just meh about this whole American-pride.

About ten years ago, I read an article. The article discussed different things, about us as a country, which Europeans found weird, odd or strange about the US, when they had visited. The one that stuck out the most was by a German tourist, and it was how proud we all are for being American. The tourist said that, if you ask a German how they feel about being German, they’ll be happy (probably) but it would never occur to them to be proud. Here, Americans are all proud, as if we’ve done something special, and spectacular—just being born here.

That thought made me sit up, and really think! I mean pondering for days (even years later). Why are Americans proud of being Americans? I suppose it many ways it’s the same as people who are proud of be white, or extremely vocal about their straightness being blessed by god. What is it about us, and our culture that encourages such thinking?

I don’t know the answer to that, really. I’m no sociologist, and I certainly don’t have the knowledge base to make anything more than an educated guess. But I’ve sure been thinking about it, and wondering and worrying it like a knot. Then I’ll put it away for a while, before pulling it back out and thinking about it more. 

So, I thought first about how I was introduced to that concept. The first time I remember hearing the phrase had to be around the time that song, “God Bless the USA” by that guy who looks like Neil Diamond came out—so (without Googling because I don’t care that much) I’d guess it would be roughly 84-ish. Whenever that song came out, anyway… there was this gigantic influx of “God Bless Americas” and people being so happy that they were born here. It wasn’t like a “wow, I lucked out, how awesome!” Rather it was more along the lines of “God is so good to us, blessing us with this country and being born here, in this land of freedom and awesome godliness.”

Memorial Day and the 4^th of July were when these phrases would be more prevalent, almost as though they were pulled out with the silver and polished to a high, jingoistic gleam. Occasionally someone would trot out how awesome America was, when their candidate won whichever election was currently being counted and certified.

Most of the people who cried out this love for God and country went to church with us or were members of my mother’s family (who didn’t go to our church, but most of them were sufficiently fundie that they were ok in my mother’s “Big book of churches that are Godly”). It always went together, God and Country; we couldn’t have a Country without God—and often that would lead into yet another lecture on the founding of this nation on the Bible.

That was the price we paid, see, for living in such an amazing, awesome country—being so proud of being American—knowing and paying homage to the “fact” that God chose our nation, planted us on Plymouth Rock, and set us above all of the others (except Israel, of course) to show the world what a beautiful, Christian country looked like. Hence, we could be proud of being American, in the same way they’re all proud of being Christians.

Most of them are pretty proud of being white, too… come to think of it. There’s a large, wide swatch of racism that flows through such speeches, and that’s been something that bothers me about this whole pride thing, for many years.

I’m no more proud of being American, or white, than I am of having blue eyes and red hair. I didn’t do a damned thing to “earn” this, so what right do I have to be proud?! I am proud of my cooking, proud of my books, proud of my skill with words, and my abilities. I’m proud of myself, proud of how far I’ve come, what I’ve learned, who I am, and all the trials and triumphs  I’ve grown into—but I can’t say I’m proud of anything I haven’t earned.

Because I can’t muster up the pride in my birth country, I am sure that this makes me a bad American.

I don’t hate gay people, nor do I think I can “catch” the gay. I don’t think that I need a bazooka, just because the 2^nd Amendment enshrines an armed militia (we’ll talk about how I feel about this, another time, it’s way too big to unpack here). I don’t believe that Gawd is blessing America, or that there is a god, or that if there was one, that we’d have a right to ask/demand that we were blessed somehow. 

I’m a bad American

I’m not a Republican, and I don’t hate people who aren’t religious. I’m not anti-science, and am not afraid if my kids learn about evolution (in fact, I demand it! It’s science, dammit!) I’m not anti-intellectual, and I don’t hate France. I’m not anti-taxes, either, though I do wish that we spent more on education and healthcare and a hellova lot less on the defense budget (let’s call it what it really is, too, the war budget!)

I’m a bad American.

I think for myself. I question authority. I devour information, facts and figures. I love science and learning things. I’m not afraid to say “I don’t know! But I want to find out!” I don’t swallow the talking points, the blurbs, the headlines, or the sound-bites. I ignore talking-heads, and think most news commentators are there just to add some sexy glitz to reading the news. I protest war, and celebrate peace. I don’t own a gun. I don’t go to church, and I would absolutely vote for an atheist! I’m not the centre of the universe, and I am ok being a speck, on a speck, circling a speck in the wide reaches of a swirly speck in the vague area of the Universe we call our super cluster. Insignificance is ok with me.

Maybe that’s why I don’t get that whole pride in America-idea. I don’t think we’re special; we’re not significant, or exceptional. We’re just us, just people, just here, doing our things. God no more set down to dictate the Constitution than I did! People wrote it, fallible, smart, amazing, fucked up people. 

I don’t feel like I have to lionize humanity, just because of the place of our birth. And frankly, I’m damned sick and tired of hearing how much we have to praise America. America is a fucked up place! We starve our poor, ignore our elderly and punish children. We put mentally disabled people to death; we kill people who rob grocery stores—but celebrate Wall Street Bankers, who steal billions! America is full of self-righteous, hypocritical, loud, obnoxious, ignorant (and Proud of It!!) religious folks who believe that their highest calling is to tell you what to do with your life, and to loudly exclaim that they know better than you what their god wants for you—never mind if you don’t have a god of your own.

I don’t want to teach my kids to be proud of being American, either. I don’t want them proud of being white, or having blue eyes, or living in a house with cats. They can be proud of the things they, themselves, have accomplished—and I am proud of them, but pride should never be in something over which you had no control, over something that happened to you because of accident of birth.

I think I’ll say I am happy being American. I’m annoyed, angry, fired up, pleased, sick, irritated and glad, too. 

But I’m not proud.

*John 3:16: “for God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” (KJV) Would it surprise you that I didn’t have to look it up? Surprised me, that I remembered it… I suppose it shouldn’t, I mean this verse is crammed down your throat when you’re little and your parents are Christians—it’s like their miniature gospel or something ridiculous.

New post, for a new year

Happy New Year!

I hope 2014 is twice as awesome and ten times as wonderful as 2013 was!

I know I’ve been remiss at writing. I won’t offer any excuses, as I’ve none to give. I haven’t done any writing lately that wasn’t work related, so when I get home, I don’t really feel like writing anything else. You can only write articles about cats, TNR* and adoption events for so long before you just shut down the writing portion of your brains – or they do go on strike and demand to be left alone to play video games and force your hands to stuff Cheetos in your face (the crunchy ones, not the puffy ones, we have to have some standards).

So, let me tell you a little about what’s swirling in my head lately.

My world has revolved around cats since I started volunteering for the Hermitage last spring. I know this, and you, my dear patient reader, also know this. That doesn’t mean I don’t still think about other things, and read the news and all that. It just means that like you, my 40+ hour work week spills over into my after-work life.

I’m becoming something of a workaholic, I think.

I never was one before. Even the jobs I‘ve had that I loved, I was more than able to put the work away at quitting time and go home. Now, though, work goes with me all the time. I wake up thinking, “such and such a cat should be picked up today, better remember to get the contract ready” and “I hope this-or-that cat is feeling better, they’ve sure been ill with that kitty cold for a while now.” I go to bed worrying about our elderly kitties, or those who are trying to get over URI’s**.

I was there at the vet when we had to let one of our kitties go. He had pneumonia, and was slowly drowning on his own lungs. We tried everything, including putting him in an oxygen tent for a couple weeks, but he just wasn’t getting better… and he was hurting. I bawled. We all did.

When we lose cats around here, we cry for them. They are our family, we’re their caretakers, until they get their permanent homes. It might sound trite, or silly, but that’s why I’ve been so unable to let go of work these past months. I want the cats at our shelter to have the best home we can give them, until they walk out the door with their new family.

On the other hand, in current events and all: I read about a state Senator in Utah who’s gone on a hunger strike to protest marriage equality. He said he wouldn’t eat until [gay marriage] ended in Utah, or he did. Now, I can’t remember his name so if you want to know more, you’ve got to get out your Google-fu; frankly I don’t want his name in my blog anyway—I loathe the idea of someone like him being attached to my writing.

Know what I thought when I first read about him? “Oh, how sad for his family. This will probably be considered a suicide, and insurance doesn’t’ pay out for suicide.” My next thought was “Good riddance to bad rubbish!” If he wants to die, far be it from me to prevent him—he’s an adult, and mentally competent (well mostly, he is a Republican, after all and hate gay people). If he wants to starve, then let him starve. I do think it’d be a pretty shitty way to die, though; starvation would be a pretty painful way to go, right? Maybe not, maybe it’s more like freezing to death where you don’t’ feel anything, but it seems to me that starvation would be a pretty awful way to die.

Of course, I know he won’t starve. He won’t even be inconvenienced. His family will put him in hospital, or he’ll come out with a lame “doctor told me that I have to go off the hunger strike”. He’ll half ass it just like every other thing the GOP’s done lately… but he’ll run it into the ground for PR and campaign donations.

Another thing that’s been swirling around in my head lately comes from another article I read a couple weeks ago. The premise of the article was that atheism is a luxury, something reserved for the upper-class, something for rich white people.

First, that pissed me off. Then I was annoyed at the classism that dripped off the writer’s pen. Third, I actually forced myself to think about it for awhile.

Maybe the writer was on to something; maybe they weren’t. But I thought long and hard about the idea that you have to be rich, or at least well off, to be able to contemplate the real questions of god, and the existence of a higher power; I deliberated the idea that you have to be rich, or at least middle class, to have the ability to contemplate the so-called harder questions of life. I asked myself the question: is atheism a rich-only club?

Then I threw that whole idea right out of the window!

I’m not rich, not even “well-off”. I am an atheist based on the time I have taken to ask the big questions. That time started when I was poor as shit, starving, and eating Ramen, so my kids could have nutritious food; the times I asked god for help, for a sign, an idea, a way forward, and heard nothing from the Universe except the echo of my own despair. I never heard anything from a god, and I didn’t find comfort from belief. So I asked questions, lots and lots of questions. I researched, surfed the web, and wasn’t afraid to think about things, even in the deepest part of the night, when I should have been sleeping.

Atheism isn’t a refuge for the rich. It’s not a “Rich only” country club. It’s the place you come to, when you’re brave enough to ask, to seek the truth no matter where it takes you, and to accept that the truth isn’t always what you want it to be.

If you find peace in your beliefs, fine; I did not. If you find comfort in your god, fine; I did not. If you want to believe so badly that you talk yourself into refusing to question, fine; I could not. I wanted to know the truth much more than I wanted to believe. I wanted to stare Truth in the face, full on without reservations to be able to see into the depths of everything—even if nothing stared back at me. I wanted to Know, not hope, not have “faith”, not wish. I wanted Truth, not wishes and dreams and “cross my heart and hope to die”. Religious beliefs are great if you’re comfortable never asking; but just because you don’t’ ask, doesn’t mean you’re poor. It means you’re afraid of the answers… even rich people can be deluded by religion—need an example? Try the Santorum’s, or the Romney’s, or the Bush’s…

Anyway, those are a couple things that have been on my mind these past few weeks. I’ll stop ranting for now, and try to pick the ranting back up on Sundays. I usually have a little extra time on Sundays.

Thank you all for reading, and being patient with me.

*TNR stands for trap-neuter-return; it’s a program designed to spay/neuter feral cats, get them their rabies shots and return them to their home colonies—rather than removing them and leaving the colony space open for other cats to move in.

**URI: upper respiratory infection—a cold. Some times they get bad enough to turn into pneumonia, just like for huamns.

Shelter Stories

In the cat shelter where I work, we’re surrounded by hard luck cases. Some are easier to deal with than others; some make me want to go home, curl up in bed with my head under the duvet, and never come out.

Above my desk is a photograph. It was taken about two weeks ago, and sent into us. It is a grey and white tuxedo cat named Mylo. Mylo’s adoptive Mummy sent it in. She found him, covered in dirt and bite marks, and brought him in.

Based on the bites, we think Mylo was used as bait for dog-fighting. We don’t have proof; of course, we just know what we saw, and what it looked like. He was then buried alive—we know this, because of the way he was completely caked in dirt. Poor kitty had to be shaved down almost to the skin to get all the dirt off so the vet could stitch him up and clean  up his wounds.

The lady who found him adopted him after his rather intensive recovery.  He’s now making a home with her and her other kitty, and is happy as can be.

Another tuxedo, a black and white this time, in the shelter is named Crisp. He was left on our doorstep over night, in a box; unfortunately by the time anyone came in at seven he was covered in ants and had been bitten quite badly. He’s finally starting to come around, after over a month here in the shelter with us; he’ll let us pet him if he’s off the floor (say on a cat castle, or up on the overhead cat walkways). He’ll talk to me now, and beg for attention, but only if he’s not on the floor.

I think part of him still worries he’ll end up back in a box, stuck on the ground, on an ant hill. I'm hoping he gets adopted soon, but it will have to be someone who understands and is willing to be patient. Once he blossoms, though, he's going to be one of the sweetest, most cuddly and loving cats I've ever met.

Our Director is fostering a cat, named Wonder. Wonder's adorable, and we're all thrilled to bits that she's doing so well, see, Wonder is a "tripod", meaning she has three legs. We had to amputate one of them. She was caught in a trap, and it cut her leg to the bone. There was no way to save it, so it came off, to save her life. Healing is always an uphill battle for cats when they lose a limb-- just like humans, and so we've been known to hover over the updates, worrying like bunches of mummy hens. She's doing a lot better now, though and I think our Boss will formally adopt her once the doctor gives the "healthy kitty" go-ahead.

Ninja is another tripod; she was bitten by a rattlesnake, and lost her leg. She was adopted just after our shelter's birthday party earlier this month. She's so full of life and amazing! She's also crazy as a bedbug, and cuddly. I know I miss her around the shelter, but I also know the lady who adopted her fell madly in love, and will spoil Ninja rotten!

 

I can’t lie and say I’m surprised at the depths of hatred that humans show to one another—while I know we’re not really evolutionarily bred for war, it sure seems as though governments like it. I am surprised, over and over again, at the evil that humans will show to animals—even though I’m slapped in the face with it, every single day that I go to work. It's usually the sweetest cats who are thrown away, too. And I mean that literally, often they're just thrown.

Some of our cats were thrown on the side of the road; some were abandoned at various veterinary offices. Some cats and kittens were thrown in the rubbish bins, and others were literally thrown from moving cars.

The four we adopted, Finn, Pippin, Bavard and Sadie were abandoned at the vet's office-- in a Tupperware bowl. They still had blue eyes, and shouldn't have been away from their mum. Now they're happy, healthy, spoiled five month old cats. Even though we saved them, the fact remains, they were thrown away.

Inkblot, our newest adoptee was also thrown away. He, and his three siblings were brought in so starved and dehydrated that they when right to the animal hospital. Two of the kittens never made it over to the shelter-- they died at the hospital. As my readers know, we lost Opie a few days after we brought him home. But Inkblot just turned 10 weeks old, and he's doing amazing. 

The shelter takes in the throw-aways, those with chronic illnesses like FIV and FeLV and diabetes. Cats that would be euthanized, because other shelters cannot, or will not, deal with their long term care. We take in the ones who should have died from exposure, neglect, sicknesses-- even being "hoarded". We take them in, love them and work our asses off trying to find them good, loving, forever homes. We just arranged to take in six FeLV cats from the local Humane Society before they were killed-- just because they have leukaemia! These cats are some of the most loving, amazing cats I've met, but they aren't adoptable, according to the HS, and so they were taking up valuable space that other cats could have.*

 

Now, we had three adoptions, and that was fucking awesome! I love taking the "going home" photos, and posting them to Facebook so all our supporters can celebrate with us. 

And I have an application on my desk that I'm going to process tomorrow; as well as a couple more out there that I'm thinking will come back in soon. I get excited when that happens, because I know that means another kitty has found their new family.

One of our sponsors came in, and found solace with one of our FIV kitties; she helped him today, as he's suffering from the very recent loss of his own FIV kitty. He's half in love with her already, and I wouldn't be surprised to see him back in to visit. It really seems to comfort people who's lost their beloved kitties, when they come in to see ours.

Another gentleman came in to introduce himself to our kitties. He too lost his cat, about a year ago, and is finally ready to be found by his new cat. That's what happens you see, cats find and adopt us. I was really happy to see his smile when he got ready to leave-- I know he felt a lot better when he left, than when he'd come in.

All those things are awesome, and are just a teeny fraction of the stories that I see every day that I work.

Some things are really bad, but come out OK, like little Crisp and Mylo. Others are just good.

I haven't had time to write about my work, because I've been too busy working! But I love my job. Crazy cat people, awesome volunteers, cats every place! I love it.

I just wish we could save all of them. I wish that no animal would ever be thrown away-- and that they'd all have a lap to snuggle down in, like one of our fosters is doing right now with me. Pippin is sprawled out on my desk right by my mouse, and she'll demand some attention soon, with her adorable little "mew". I want every cat out there to be loved, just as much as mine are.

I guess, when it comes down to it, that's why we do what we do. We want to be put out of our jobs, really. I know I would rejoice if tomorrow I got a call that there were no longer any unwanted, abused, hoarded, neglected cats. I'd do the happy dance down to the shelter to help pack it up and empty it out. That would be so cool!

Until then, I'll be there, in a teal polo that makes me look slightly greenish, answering the phone, or greeting you when you come in the door, "Hi! What can I do for you today?" before giving you a tour and introducing you to some of our residents.

*I know that wasn't the official reason we took them; and it's not abnormal for our shelter to transfer custody from another shelter or group to our own. It's part of our sanctuary thing. I also know that I'm biased against the HS, because they are more likely to euthanize kittens and queens, and anyone else they can't move within a week or so, rather than attempt to place them. Killing animals for convenience pisses me off.

Dream meandering

I keep having this recurring dream. I know everyone does, at least if you can remember your dreams, chances are you have a couple, three, five, that repeat randomly. I've always had a couple, and they're very, very normal: late for class and can't remember my locker combination; taking a test, or giving a speech; being chased; flying, or swimming under water (curiously enough, I never drown, nor do I feel suffocated-- usually I'm able to breathe just fine, and always think, "Isn't that handy, my gills came back". No, I don't know why, but it's kinda nice.)

These dreams seem to be a common thing for most of humanity; we have the same subconscious fears, so it makes sense that we'd have the same recurring nightmares/bad dreams/WTF was that shit! In fact, I think it makes perfect sense that we'd even dream, as a whole society or world, about being late for school or work, or falling, or being chased; especially the visceral nature of the chase, falling or drowning dreams.

The dream that I keep having, though, isn't like the others. It's a strange amalgam of two dreams, literally-- they'll overlap in this weird, surreal way, leaving me wondering what I missed, but unable to logic my way to wakefulness, or through the problem. I want to meander through these, if you would indulge me. If such things bore you, my feelings won't be hurt if you skip this one. Not every one's interested in dreams.

I'm walking through a house, my house-- even though it's one I've never seen before and every time, it's different. I place my hand in my pocket to pull out my mobile phone, knowing I have to make a call, when I'm interrupted by the doorbell, a knock, or some times people just barging in the house. No matter if I have to open the door, or if I'm stormed in on, my house is suddenly full of people demanding my attention! People uninvited, unwanted, or in such incongruous situations* that I'm unable to process anything. I'm standing in the centre of a group of people, surrounded by talking, voices, noise... even if it's just one person-- they have a thousand voices all saying something different.

My mother, father, sister and brother, my maternal grandparents and some times my great-grandmother and great-aunts arrive. Sometimes it's a bunch of people I've never laid eyes on before who look curiously like a stereotypical tour group. The combination of people changes, it could be everyone, or it could just be my mother; she is the one person who's always there. 

She arrives as though she's invited; even though we both know she's not wanted. When she's with my Dad, or siblings, she has the self-awareness to be slightly embarrassed, but only slightly; only in that "oh, we both brought apple pie to the pot-luck" sort of way. When she has come alone, with her parents or anyone else, she's her normal, bossy, self-absorbed self. Often she tries to kiss my cheek, or hug me in greeting, and I have to push her away, physically. It's much harder than it should be, given she's only 5 feet 2. She's demanding my attention, trying to force herself into my conversations, and won't let me make that call I need to make.

That call, it's so important! My dream-mind revolves around that little mobile phone... like a planet around the sun, it's such a focal part of my dream. The phone changes, some times it's a generic flip, some times it's an actual cordless phone that I pick up from the base of my home-phone, and some times it's my HTC. 

The phone burns me with its importance; burns my hands with impatience to dial those numbers, to make that connection.

But I don't remember the number, or I can't read them. The name isn't in my contact list, and so I have to try to remember it, to tap it into a phone that's shrinking and losing buttons. Finally I get the number out! Finally I've tapped it in there, and I listen for the ring-back**.

It rings in my ear forever. The entire time my mother is talking, but I can't understand her. She's yammering on, and on, and occasionally I'll hear something clearly. Sometime like, "You owe..." or "Why do you care?" or "What's the point of this?" or my favourite, "Are you paying attention to anything I've said?" To which I say, "No, I'm on the fucking phone! Why are you here, anyway? Who asked you in?"

I have to leave a message. It's always the same thing. This is when I realise who I've been trying to call, and when the dream goes from strange and bewildering to hurtful.

Hi, it's me! You haven't returned my calls, and I've been worried about you. Please give me a call when you get off work, or text me, or something. Let me know you're OK, that we're OK... I miss you!

I never get to say, "I love you!" because the voice mail cuts out, and so I have to be happy with the strangely cryptic message that I was able to get to my husband... yeah, I'm trying to call him, get a text, something to let me know he's OK. Suddenly, I know, in this dream, that he's working in another city, that he's angry at me, and that he's refusing to speak to me. I know this, only after I have to leave the message. But I don't know what I did to make him so mad.


I don't know why he's ignoring me, I only know I'm worried sick about him, and that I miss him so much it feels like a physical ache, like my ribs are all broken.

Then my mother starts in, telling me how I've gone and fucked it up again. That no one would ever love me. That I'm worthless, ugly, stupid and have thrown away the best man who ever happened to me. That she hopes he's fucking the shit out of some super model who's worthy of him, and that she expects the divorce papers to come in the mail.

I usually deck her at that point, and physically pick her up to throw her out of my house. My Dad, if he's there, is usually still sitting at the kitchen table, having a cup of coffee utterly oblivious, which is fine. But my mother, she shrinks down to the size of a doll, so I grab her hair and fling her outside like a baseball. Slamming the door, I lock it tight, and then I'm alone.

Alone with that phone, that's still burning hot.
Alone with the knowledge that my mother's hurtful words were right. That he really is the best person for me, and that I've done something horrible to him, to make him go, to make him hate me.

I just with I knew what it was!

Then I wake up. And there he is: sleeping soundly, right next to me, surrounded by the velvety darkness of our room, and often with an arm around my hips. There he is, with a cat at his back, snuggled down in our bed.

So why do I dream this? I can't figure it out. I'm not aware of any fears that he'd leave me. Nor do I think I'm worthless-- well, I have my moments, but he doesn't have anything to do with those. I don't think he's bored, or wanting to get a girl friend. I know he's say something if he was bothered by anything in our relationship-- we try really hard to keep our communication lines free and clear and always open.

In fact, the state of our union check in the other week seemed like we're right where we want to be! We're making some plans for the future, discussing silly things for Christmas like new cookies, and even kicking around the idea of getting a Volt in a year or two. We are doing better than OK, I think; I think we're fucking fantastic!

I really am disturbed by these dreams, the implications that I'm channelling my mother to punish myself like this. Why would I do that? Why do I think I need to be punished, and why would I think I could possibly chase my spouse away? Especially without him telling me what was wrong. He's very good about telling me, straight away, and he likes to talk, so I'd know long before we got to the "moving to another city" point.

I've tried interpreting these dreams, and keep circling back to my internal "mother voice", you know the voice in your Peanut Gallery that is your mother-- mine's pretty abusive, and when things are going all right, is when that voice pipes up, cranks up the volume. I think I still have a small part of me that expect her to be right, about everything-- and that manifests in these dreams.

So, how do I fight them off, make them go away, force them to stop or even change them for the better?

I haven't the faintest fucking idea. Usually I can control my dreams. If something seems wrong, I can change it, re-make it, even force myself awake. These dreams though, I can't. So I've started telling myself every time I think of them, or awaken from them, "I know he would never do that. He's kind and generous, and would never treat me with such disdain. I know it's just my Peanut Gallery, and that mother-voice is wrong."

I'm hoping that this is enough to eventually make the dreams stop. They're really depressing, even though I know they're dreams, and false, and wrong. They're really hurtful, really make me sad, and worry. Even though I know it's just a fucking dream, I want to beg my husband to tell me what's wrong, so I can fix it.

Until that feeling of self-castigation stops, I"ll be doing some purposeful mediation. Meditation's always good for you, anyway, and right now, I need it.

I do wish it was as easy to shout down my Peanut Gallery while I was asleep, as it is while I'm awake, though... that would make this so much easier!


*I dreamt, for instance that my Dad was planning a wedding, with a black tie theme for his cousin, someone I've never heard of, and dreamed up. My Dad would never be asked to plan a wedding, let alone a black tie event! He kept waving these swatches of fabric at me, telling me he wanted my opinion on the drapery, and whether or not I'd consent to wear lime green. Yeah, incongruous!

**Ring-back is the sound you hear when you call someone and it's "ringing". This isn't actually the sound of their phone ringing, it's feedback sent to your receiver so that you know the connection has been made. That's why it can "ring" five times, or once for you, but be precisely three rings for whomever you're calling.

More about fostering kittens

We have been fostering kittens since April; this means we take them home, feed them, care for them, socialise them and love them to pieces until they reach the magical weight of two pounds. When they're at two pounds, they can handle the anaesthetic and surgery for sterilisation; much like us, they have to be healthy enough for surgery, and it's my job as a foster parent to help ensure this.

The first group was ten kittens; two litters, one of six, and one of four. The six-litter was older, perhaps six weeks old; the four was barely three weeks, and all of them still had blue eyes! One group had been dropped off at the Hermitage, and the other was abandoned at Valley Animal Hospital-- in a tupperware bowl! Imagine our horror, those poor babies, just dropped off like they were rubbish to be left on the side of the road.

We worried ourselves sick over the little dudes, as the tiniest ones (their names are Bavard and Finn, now!) were barely fifteen ounces when we got them. Kira, Moxie, Pierce, Ritz, Ai and Sayuri were with us about three weeks, and as of right now only Ai and Ritz haven't been adopted!*

Of course, Finn, Bavard, Sadie and Pippin are ours now, and running amok through the living room, or are draped in random places snoozing. You know cats have to nap-- otherwise they aren't rested up for their main evening sleep. We had them for almost two months before they were big enough for surgery, but now you'd never know they weren't always loved, pampered, adored babies. Last time I weighed Pip, she was almost five pounds, so we don't worry about them starving any more (OK, OK, I still worry! But I'm their mum, and I love them fiercely, so that's my job).

After we dropped our "First Six" off at Valley, we went and picked up another six. This was the litter with Manx kittens, and we got an added duty: watch them like hawks and see if they've got Manx Syndrome**. First, though, we had to give them baths; they stank so badly from PACC [Pima County Animal Control] where the Hermitage rescued them... yeah, what a welcome home we gave them, huh?

We were thrilled when we found that both Manx's, the Stubb (a Manx with a little teeny bit of tail) and all three "regularly tailed" cats were just fine. No trouble going in the box, and they were all so damned cute!

Of course, the last couple weeks we had them, we let all ten mingle, and if you've never slept with ten kittens, it's an experience! We had kittens on our pillows, and in our hair; we had them by our feet, and behind our knees; they were between us (which make cuddling your spouse kinda hard, and weirdly furry!) and at random intervals would pounce our faces! It was awesome, and irritating, and wonderful, and I loved it!

Emoji, Randi and Marius were our Manx's... and they were adopted pretty quickly. Houdini, Davenport and Peter were snapped up pretty quickly as well. In fact, Davenport and Marius were the last two, and were adopted at the same event, one of our Saturday's at Bookman's. The rest of them were adopted at the Kitten Shower, the same event weekend we adopted our four..

We were foster-less for maybe a week. Then we got the call, "Can you take in a momma cat and her kittens? [The Guy] who has them now has to travel, and can't keep them."

So we said, "Sure, when do we need to pick them up?" We picked them up a couple days later, and welcomed Megan, and her three babies, Peter, Paul and Mary.

No, I didn't name them... The kittens we've named have had reasons for their name. Marius, named for a Noise Marine because he squawked; Emoji, named because the tabby markings on her face looked a lot like the Japanese emoticon: =@.@=; Houdini and Davenport, named for early 20th century escape artists, because -- you guessed it, they could fly, I swear! Bavard, which is French for Chatterbox, because he talks. I'm sure you're getting the idea.

Megan and her brood were with us for a month or five weeks. They grew so quick, and were so much fun! Paul (who we called Nerfer, because his mew was more of a "Nerf?" sound) was a cuddle-bug, and Little Miss Mary-Contrary likes to nibble on little toes. I expect they'll be adopted pretty quickly, the kittens anyway-- Megan is so shy and retiring. We may end up fostering her some more, to help socialise her; I will definitely keep you all posted with them, too!

We dropped them off early last week, and then on Sunday when I was leaving work my boss asked me to take his "little monsters". I'd already offered to take in the litter so I wasn't surprised at all. There were two of them; one had died just as we found them, and the other one was still at Valley***. These guys had been starved, dehydrated, at just a month old were so emaciated that they were the size of three week old kittens, and covered in ear mites! They also looked like little fuzzy Muppets, and my heart went out to them immediately. We brought Opie and Black Attack home Sunday night, and the cuddles and fattening up began.

The medication and ear drops began, too! The poor guys. Opie had to have antibiotics twice a day, too, and if you've ever had to give medicine to a cat, you know it's not easy, at all. They are harder to medicate than a cranky three year old, and have teeth and claws to boot!

Wednesday night I noticed Opie wasn't doing very well, and took him into Valley. I love that vet-hospital so much. They were there for us when we had to let Neko go and were so full of compassion and love that I can't even explain to you how comforting they are. Our vet was on Wednesday night, and they whisked little Opie in the back and started fluids and IV medication, and we crossed our fingers.

Even though the kittens aren't mine; I'm just the foster parent, they took my number to call me with updates. And I'm so glad they did. At about 1:30 Thursday morning the vet called; Opie was gone.

We don't know, exactly, why he died. Part is his early privation; part is something called "fading kitten syndrome"-- basically the kitten, or puppy, version of sudden infant death syndrome. Often, no matter how quickly you catch it, there's no hope.

I know this, intellectually, but I've been kicking myself for almost 48 hours. What if I... it circles over and over.

So, I'm hanging on to the fact that I loved that little Muppet so much in the three days I had him here with me. He got food, water, love, cuddles, play and sweet words. I told him about the Hermitage, and the cats and kittens he'd meet when he was big enough; I told him that he'd get adopted straight away, and how much I was excited for him! I told him I loved him, and called him my precious little Muppet, my little Punkin-eater.

 Opie's the first foster we've lost, though... and I'm such a softy that I'm just heartbroken over it.

As you can see, he was an adorable little guy with the cutest face!

Black Attack, officially called "Attack", and called Inkblot here at the house, is doing fantastic, however.

He's already gained three ounces, and is eating and playing like a champ.

I take him in for a check-up this afternoon, and I expect that he'll get to his two pounds with no trouble.

I'll still worry about him, though, and I'll keep a close eye on him, just in case.

That's the thing about fostering, really. You give these kittens and cats a chance at life they may not have had. Often, without us, they'd be dead, either starved or euthanised. We give them as much love as we can pack into the time we've got them, and send them out into the world to be adopted and loved by their new families. And damn, it's hard to send them back!

But I wouldn't change that one bit. I want to give them a chance at life; and even if it's a short one, it will be full of love, and they'll know they were wanted and welcome, not lost and alone.

I don't think love is a finite resource; that I'll run out if I use it up. Rather, I think love is one of those multiplicative things-- the more you give it, the more you have. I know that these little Muppets, and all my fosters have given me back so much more than I have given them, in the short time I have been blessed to have them in my life.


*Pierce, Ritz and Ai got sick after their surgery; they caught an upper respiratory infection. This is pretty common in kittens, kinda like a toddler getting a cold; but it can turn into kitty pneumonia, and so they have to be monitored very closely. Pierce was adopted last week, and I know the other two won't be far behind.

**The TL:DR version of Manx Syndrome: Manx cats, those born without tails, some times have an additional mutation that causes their spinal nerves to be malformed. This causes several physical problems that range from severe spina bifida, paralysis and death; however, most of the time the cat merely is completely incontinent. So, they can't hold their bowls or bladders, and dribble. Most shelters-- all of them that I've ever heard of, except the Hermitage actually-- euthanise these cats, because they're unadoptable. At the Hermitage we have four of them, all sponsored for life, and all the sweetest, cutest little guys. They have normal life spans, and are active, playful and loving, they just can't control where they void... they're probably my favourites there, but don't tell the FeLV babies!

***Oz never made it back to the Hermitage; he passed at Valley late Sunday night.

Meandering thoughts on mental illness and doubts

I know I haven't been writing, but I have been busy with fostering and work. I got hired in at the Hermitage a couple weeks ago, and the adjustment of schedules has been a little difficult. I'll write more about my awesome, kick-ass job later. Today, I want to talk about mental illness.

I read Salon.com with some regularity. Maybe twice a week I pop over there to see what's up, and what's new. A couple weeks ago I found this article, and as I adore Greta Christina, I read it! (She's an amazing speaker and writer, and you can see her blog here).

I remember I had seen a headline at CNN that Rick Warren's kid had committed suicide and that week Warren had finally started preaching again. I didn't know anything about the gent, except he was Warren's kid, and well, I have a very low opinion of Rick Warren. That doesn't mean I celebrated his death, or anything like that; in fact, I felt bad for his family, like everyone with a heart does when we hear about a death. I also hoped that they found some inner peace, as their beloved son wasn't hurting any more. And that, I thought was the end of it.

Until I saw Greta's piece for Salon. “We’re all mentally ill.”...“You have fears, you have worries, you have doubts, you have compulsions, you have attractions…”

Those were part of the sermon Warren gave, when he was speaking of his son's mental illness, and ultimately his suicide. “We're all mentally ill” he says.

Now, I would encourage you to read Greta's take on it, and my meandering goes parallel with her thoughts, that Warren was trying to de-stigmatize mental illness-- but that he's totally failing in that regard. In fact, I would echo Greta's idea that Warren's sermon “trivializes [mental illness]. It contributes to the stigma. And it makes it harder to recognize and treat.”

I know this first hand as a former evangelical kid, and as someone who has struggled with depression my entire life. That's why this article stood out to me, and why I'm writing about it now.

I was taught as a kid, and I've talked about this before, that if you were depressed, it was only because you weren't letting God have total control of your life. This meant that I wasn't praying hard enough, that I was worrying too much, that I wasn't being submissive enough, that I was a bad christian... that if I only “Let Go, and Let God” I'd be fine!

This is utter bullshit! It's so much horseshit that I can't even explain it to you. But it is something that christians* have heard, have had pounded into their heads for decades. We are taught that god is testing us, that we just have to be submissive to his plan, that we're trying too hard to take over control of our lives. We're told we're defective, and some times, that we might not be real christians... imagine that, not being a real christian ™ because you have doubts in yourself and in the world, because you're an insomniac, because you're depressed, or have OCD. It's a pretty terrible thing to teach your kids, and yet I'd venture that millions of conservative christians have been brought up this way, and except for the LDS**, they avoid anti-depressants like they would steal your soul!

Yes, steal your soul. I was maybe 16 and my mother was shouting at me for being down and depressed, and told me to pull myself together. After the rant about how God would make me better if I just let him, I asked her if maybe I should see a doctor, or psychologist or something. “No! Those people will mess with your soul!” she just about shrieked at me. She was completely serious, too! She, and her peers at church, truly felt that a psychologist, or any mental health professional would some how un-salvation me, make me a Satanist, or medicate me into atheism, or well, pick your idea of the Worst Possible Thing Ever!!!

She even make a stirring motion with her hands, as if psychologists have this ability to reach into your body and physically do something to your souls-- weird huh?

Then she made me an appointment with the pastor, which I kept, and which was totally unhelpful. He was really good at speaking, like a college professor-- but his people skills left much to be desired. He thought I wasn't smart enough, that none of us were anywhere nearly as smart as he, and he treated us with the indulgence usually reserved for slightly mentally deficient pets or dementia patients. It was humiliating, to say the least.

I think that's why this article struck me so deeply. It's certainly why it's taken me awhile to write about it-- I flashed back to that place of being told that I was worthless without god, and that by trying to be a good person, to work hard, to get good grades, that I was not letting god have his way in my life, and therefore everything I did was even more horrible. That whole “all our works are as filthy rags” thing got thrown at me, a lot! No matter what I did, it wasn't good enough... and still I was depressed.

So I stuffed it down, I did my best to pretend I was fine, and deal with it in whatever way I could. I dealt; I ignored; I would just say “I'm feeling down”; I'd pretend.

Years later, it was the Summer of 2003, and I was in a really bad way. I had accepted that I was just not a normally happy person a few years before-- that my normal was just lower than everyone else's, but it never seemed like it interfered with my life-- or so I thought. I finally went to see a therapist, because I just couldn't get out of the funk I was in. I thought there was something wrong with me, that I was defective, because I wasn't able to handle it on my own any more. I was a strong woman, I thought, I should be able to handle this-- it was just a little period of the blues... right?

I really thought I was just being an asshole, that I was attention-seeking, that the therapist would shake me and tell me to pull myself together! I thought maybe that's what I needed... something to get me heading back in the right direction.

Imagine my surprise when the therapist, her name was Laura, told me “You're depressed! Of course we can help. We help with broken hearts here,” and then explained that I was normal, that depression happened, and that I wasn't defective when I had an episode... that I was just put together this way. It was a revelation. It was crazy, validating and amazing!

It made me uneasy, too, because I had been taught that mental illness didn't exist. Even as a then-Pagan, I was struggling with christianity's hold on me-- it's not something you can just take off like a dirty shirt, it's something you have to dig out like a splinter. Or a cancer.

That explains my mental state when I read Warren's excerpts in Greta's article... I immediately felt less-than, like a failure, like I was defective. Then I shook myself, and finished reading.

Mental illness isn't being full of doubts about something.

It's not attractions, and it's not most compulsions. (I'm not including OCD, because that is a mental illness; however, most of us have random compulsions, I was taught though, that compulsions are a sign of being possessed by a demon-- or “oppressed” if you were a real christian ™ because blah blah blah)

It's not being worried, or wondering if I'm going to be all right.

It's not hating everything today, or loving everything today.

And it damned well isn't being an atheist!

That's what I got from his sermon, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that I wasn't the only one who read it that way. Having doubts about religion is normal, and frankly if you don't have doubts you're an automaton... everyone questions, and most of us accept that. However, good christians ™ never question, they accept. They “let go, and let God”. So therefore doubts, agnosticism, atheism, must be a sign of mental illness-- because God would wipe those doubts away if we were really trying.

This is so horrible, I can't even begin!

My doubts started young, as I've shared before. My doubts probably saved my life-- and I'm not the only person who feels that way. Doubting that there's a god who loves me, sent a messiah and all that made me really look into the religion of my childhood and made me have to make a choice whether I accepted those stories as Truth.

Doubt helped me find myself. Doubt helped me walk away from a ruined marriage, helped me build a new life for myself and my kids; doubt helped me be brave enough to ask the hard questions, and eventually led me into a new life with a loving partner. Because I was brave enough to ask questions, and really really look for the answers!

Doubts help us find the real answers, rather than accepting what we're taught as Truth, with a capitol T. Instead, when we're brave enough to face our doubts, we find the Truth, and stop swallowing the sugar-coated lies we're given.

I've said before that I want the ugly truth, over a pretty lie... doubts, facing them, accepting them, embracing them, has helped me so much when it comes to seeing reality as it really is, rather than what I want it to be.

I can put myself into the place of Warren's congregation, though., I remember hearing about how all I needed to do, in order to make my life a little heaven on earth, full of joy and happiness and laughter and love and perfect harmony, was to let god have total control of my life. That meant I would have to let some invisible person “guide me” into making choices that mirrored what my pastor, mother, Sunday school teacher, whatever, decided was what god wanted... and that I had to use the Bible as a map for every day living. Yes, it's as screwy as it sounds, but it fucks you up when you're a kid, and trying to be good, to love god, to make god happy... It fucks you up a lot!

I just hope that any mentally ill people who hear Warren's sermon dig deep into themselves, and decide they'd rather Know, then Believe... because doubts are about accepting what you don't know, and finding out more. Where as believing is accepting that you'll never know, and God likes it that way.

I'd rather Know. Even if it's uncomfortable.

*I am including conservative denominations, JW's, LDS and “non-denominational” christians in here. I've never heard mainline protestants that had anything against mental health professionals-- only conservative ones.

** I read that anti-depressant usage in Utah is higher than anywhere else in the country. You can see the article here, and it is an interesting thought, isn't it?