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It's been... a bad couple of weeks. Well, not exactly... for the most part, it's been fine with just the odd hiccup. Like, I can't go on the PDSA van anymore because the Job Centre has sent people in for placements, so they don't need volunteers anymore. Steve, of course, was incredibly annoyed at this and told them so... but ah, well. What can you do?
I've had more dealings with the knobhead downstairs - while he's been drunk - than anyone should have. I've had to really, really focus on not kicking him down the stairs many times. Those issues are resolved, though we're no longer on speaking terms. Not that I mind... as his description of 'the knobhead downstairs' implies, I've never really gotten on with him anyway.
So aside from that, little things have just insisted on continually going wrong. This last Friday, for example, I had my final dealing with Knobby, and a lot of stuff was messing up anyway. So naturally, at the first opportunity (which was when Chrissy had got back from London and gone out for the night) I went for a bike ride down to see Kriss, after fixing a punctured tyre. Friday night, thanks to Kriss and his purchase of doobious substances, was good. It was just what I needed.
So on Saturday afternoon, I encouraged Kriss to fix a bike, and we got more doobiousness and rode up here. So we got in, sat down, and I gave Leo a little attention, then moved him from Chrissy's suitcase to his newly established sleeping point nowhere near my computer desk. Thirty seconds later, I'd turned my back and walked away and Leo miaowed *really* loudly. Like he does every couple of weeks or so when he's gonna be sick. So I went to see what was wrong, and he was laying exactly where I'd left him, completely limp and unable to move. So, naturally, I got him straight to the PDSA, who determined that for reasons they couldn't figure out, Leo was dying there and then, he was dying hard, and the kindest thing would be to put him asleep.
There are a lot of reasons why it's not as bad as it sounds. From day one, Leo was nothing but a problem. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and God help anyone who tried to tell him different. He knew full well where to find the litter tray, and yet refused to use it most of the time. He left more stray fluff and dandruff around than all of Mother's cats combined. He was a snob, an arrogant ball of fluff with a jacked-up sense of self-importance.
...but he was *mine*. He was gorgeous, and dignified, and despite his ways of showing it, never settled for less than exactly what he wanted. He looked awesome walking or running around, he made the cutest little noises I've heard from any cat... and suddenly, he's gone.
I'm trying so hard not to be sad. It was an honour to know him, and a pleasure to own him (usually). For the last month, he's been happy and sociable, and enjoyed cuddling with people. While we waited for the taxi to the PDSA, he managed to lift his head and appreciate that he was outside in fresh air, being given attention. He died having shown us the best he could be, and he did so still wearing that look of disapproval on his face.
I miss him, so very much. I'm lucky to still have Lucy and Ares, and I wouldn't change a damn thing. No regrets, as ever... but being able to open that window at the end of the hall properly and not worry about it, or not having to wait for him to join the others before putting down that chicken last night... it's those little things that really hurt, the little reminders that he's gone. And just a couple of weeks before his fourth birthday...
A lot of stuff has gone wrong, or just been shitty, over these past few weeks. I really, really hope this is the end of it... if things keep going down this road, I'm going to end up snapping and murdering everyone who falls into my line of sight. On Friday, I was completely out of energy. I had nothing more to give, physically or mentally. Nothing except the rage I was trying so hard to suppress... and now that's been replaced with a huge feeling of "Meh", like I don't know what I want to do, or who I want to spend time with, or what music I want to listen to or anything. I'm completely out of fucks to give. It's been... years, since I felt this low, and before that it was even more years. I don't know what to do from here... my usual logic would say put the kettle on and carry on. Smile and get on with it. Deal with the shit and move on.
I can't do it. I just... I don't have the energy, or the motivation. I don't want to spiral into depression again, because I'm a horrible, horrible person like that. I'm trying my best to avoid it, but it feels like... well, you've seen a spider trying to escape the bath.
I need to get away from here. I need to go somewhere different and pleasant for a week or something. What I need, what I really need, is just a little time. Time to retreat behind a wall of myself, and repair those bits of me that are falling apart. The cracks are showing again, and it sucks. Some people, I don't mind seeing the cracks. There's people who I honestly don't mind seeing me at my worst... I can't be strong all the time, after all... but if I don't fix those cracks, I'll start leaking out again. Last time I went completely off the rails... I was drinking, smoking, hanging out with the wrong sorts of people. That's when I started smoking weed, too... I don't want to think what would happen now, given that I'm older, wiser, smarter, stronger, even more capable of tearing apart a soul with a few choice words.
...I guess what I really need is for someone to just sit and hug me, and hold me, and tell me everything will be fine. Just for once, it'd be nice to be looked after, to feel important not just because I'm a large amount of awesome, but because it's my time of need.
Heh... if only...
I've had more dealings with the knobhead downstairs - while he's been drunk - than anyone should have. I've had to really, really focus on not kicking him down the stairs many times. Those issues are resolved, though we're no longer on speaking terms. Not that I mind... as his description of 'the knobhead downstairs' implies, I've never really gotten on with him anyway.
So aside from that, little things have just insisted on continually going wrong. This last Friday, for example, I had my final dealing with Knobby, and a lot of stuff was messing up anyway. So naturally, at the first opportunity (which was when Chrissy had got back from London and gone out for the night) I went for a bike ride down to see Kriss, after fixing a punctured tyre. Friday night, thanks to Kriss and his purchase of doobious substances, was good. It was just what I needed.
So on Saturday afternoon, I encouraged Kriss to fix a bike, and we got more doobiousness and rode up here. So we got in, sat down, and I gave Leo a little attention, then moved him from Chrissy's suitcase to his newly established sleeping point nowhere near my computer desk. Thirty seconds later, I'd turned my back and walked away and Leo miaowed *really* loudly. Like he does every couple of weeks or so when he's gonna be sick. So I went to see what was wrong, and he was laying exactly where I'd left him, completely limp and unable to move. So, naturally, I got him straight to the PDSA, who determined that for reasons they couldn't figure out, Leo was dying there and then, he was dying hard, and the kindest thing would be to put him asleep.
There are a lot of reasons why it's not as bad as it sounds. From day one, Leo was nothing but a problem. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and God help anyone who tried to tell him different. He knew full well where to find the litter tray, and yet refused to use it most of the time. He left more stray fluff and dandruff around than all of Mother's cats combined. He was a snob, an arrogant ball of fluff with a jacked-up sense of self-importance.
...but he was *mine*. He was gorgeous, and dignified, and despite his ways of showing it, never settled for less than exactly what he wanted. He looked awesome walking or running around, he made the cutest little noises I've heard from any cat... and suddenly, he's gone.
I'm trying so hard not to be sad. It was an honour to know him, and a pleasure to own him (usually). For the last month, he's been happy and sociable, and enjoyed cuddling with people. While we waited for the taxi to the PDSA, he managed to lift his head and appreciate that he was outside in fresh air, being given attention. He died having shown us the best he could be, and he did so still wearing that look of disapproval on his face.
I miss him, so very much. I'm lucky to still have Lucy and Ares, and I wouldn't change a damn thing. No regrets, as ever... but being able to open that window at the end of the hall properly and not worry about it, or not having to wait for him to join the others before putting down that chicken last night... it's those little things that really hurt, the little reminders that he's gone. And just a couple of weeks before his fourth birthday...
A lot of stuff has gone wrong, or just been shitty, over these past few weeks. I really, really hope this is the end of it... if things keep going down this road, I'm going to end up snapping and murdering everyone who falls into my line of sight. On Friday, I was completely out of energy. I had nothing more to give, physically or mentally. Nothing except the rage I was trying so hard to suppress... and now that's been replaced with a huge feeling of "Meh", like I don't know what I want to do, or who I want to spend time with, or what music I want to listen to or anything. I'm completely out of fucks to give. It's been... years, since I felt this low, and before that it was even more years. I don't know what to do from here... my usual logic would say put the kettle on and carry on. Smile and get on with it. Deal with the shit and move on.
I can't do it. I just... I don't have the energy, or the motivation. I don't want to spiral into depression again, because I'm a horrible, horrible person like that. I'm trying my best to avoid it, but it feels like... well, you've seen a spider trying to escape the bath.
I need to get away from here. I need to go somewhere different and pleasant for a week or something. What I need, what I really need, is just a little time. Time to retreat behind a wall of myself, and repair those bits of me that are falling apart. The cracks are showing again, and it sucks. Some people, I don't mind seeing the cracks. There's people who I honestly don't mind seeing me at my worst... I can't be strong all the time, after all... but if I don't fix those cracks, I'll start leaking out again. Last time I went completely off the rails... I was drinking, smoking, hanging out with the wrong sorts of people. That's when I started smoking weed, too... I don't want to think what would happen now, given that I'm older, wiser, smarter, stronger, even more capable of tearing apart a soul with a few choice words.
...I guess what I really need is for someone to just sit and hug me, and hold me, and tell me everything will be fine. Just for once, it'd be nice to be looked after, to feel important not just because I'm a large amount of awesome, but because it's my time of need.
Heh... if only...