I have two black juvenile cats, three kittens in total. I’m a kitten too. So I guess that makes four kittens. Lots of kittens. I love all the kittens. I do.
Some people are dog people and some people are cat people. Some people are both. I’m both. I love all the animals. Cats and dogs and birds and fishes too. I’ve had doves and Java sparrows and budgerigars and finches. Gold fish of all description, color and type.
I once shared a house with four dogs and two cats. And also two, sometimes three kittens. We were all so in love, all of us three sometimes four kittens. It was a riot. My life has been quite the adventure sometimes.
I love cows and sheep and goats and pigs too. The ravens and crows are my special friends though. They talk to me. Tell me secrets. Help protect me and keep me safe. I have no idea why, they just always have.
I ask them nicely to come visit with me and they come. Lots of them.
People seem not to like ravens and crows so well. They seem to think they’re harbingers of doom or some nonsense. I can’t be having with that. Not a bit of it.
I mean, sure they look all big and sleekit midnightish and scary and whatnot. But then they start squawking and cawing and hopping about in that silly way they do. And my heart just melts for the ravens.
But back to those black cats. We originally named them Marcie and Peebs, after cartoon characters we love. But that didn’t fit. So we named them after fallen angels instead and that fit like a glove.
One is all cuddly and needy and clambery and climbey, such a mummy’s girl. The other is more aloof and self contained, but loves nothing better than to snuffle her way beneath a blanky beside me. Or to sleep at her mummy’s feet.
They sprawl in the hallway at night in the dark. And being pitch black you can’t see them in the gloom.
They try to murder me, break my neck.
I love them for that.
My adorable little devil girl murderesses. My sweetheart riotous ruckus hellraisers.
I slept last night. Maybe six hours. It was lovely. No nightmares. No flashbackish horrors or nightytimeish terrors. No dissociationings at all. It’s been a while. I am grateful and glad.
Although I feel I must confess I am a little nervous and unsettled about it. Sad to say, I get used to things being difficult and troublesome. When things are nice and I feel okay I get a little edgy. Like its a cruel trick or a trap about to go snap.
I also get a little worried that if it lasts, I’ll get weak. So when the botherations come back again, they’ll be all the more distressing for it. Me having gone soft with the luxury of sanity and peace of mind.
But to heck with all of that. For now I feel okay and I have smarts enough to appreciate what I have.
I am grateful and glad for many things.
But none more so than you. Yes, you.
Now. About that secret. So, I do that dissociatey jumbled up identity thing, right? Those others come and go, emerge and recede and ebb and flow. Bunch of fickle faithless flighty basic bitches they are.
Childhood trauma induced madness has no sense of moderation or fidelity.
But there’s one whose always with me. I can see her in my minds eye clear as an azure sky. She’s always there. Her name is Whisper.
When things are calm and quiet, she just sits at the centre of my consciousness, heedful of nothing and no one. Not even me. She’s maybe five years old, about the same age as me when….well, I f you follow my blog you know. She’s the same age as when the bad things started happening.
And I’m not completely batguano crazy twenty four seven. I know she’s me. Me before all the terrors and the horrors and the why the hell can’t men keep their hands to themselves.
She’s the me who knows nothing of brutality or violation. She’s me before I got all tore up and ruined and made a broken thing. Me before I got filled up with his poison. His venom.
But she’s also the me who hangs onto the memories I can’t bear to be alive with in my head. She knows the things I can’t know.
I have no idea how that can work, it doesn’t make much sense to me. But then again none of this does. Least of all why anyone would do such gruesome things to a child. Why anyone would murder another living thing so painful and slow.
But none of that matters. Not to Whispers.
She just plays happily and sings pretty songs to herself. Safe and content.
I’m never alone. My sweetheart Whispers is always there.
I love her so.
It is December twenty fifth in Australia, about one P.M. And that doesn’t mean much to me, but I know it does to others. So Merry Christmas, Joyous Yuletide or Happy Holidays to you as the case may be.
N.B. Sometimes kitten means girlfriend or partner or someone I love and sometimes it just means kitten.