Drama and drama

I went to pick up Finn from Stafford yesterday. The journey up was fun; we sang a lot, swore a lot and put the world to rights.

The happy bus was slightly late getting into the motorway services and we were early so the wait was nerve wracking and dragged out into forever. I got told off by one of the women from the charity for only producing one part of the adoption form even though they’d only sent me one page. Luckily for her my mind was totally focused on Finn and getting him home.

When the van got into the services and parked up we were all waved over to pick up our animals – mine was the only cat, the rest were dogs – and as we got closer I could hear a Siamese cat-like howling. My boy was telling the whole world he was unhappy.

He was first out of the van and, call me soft if you will, I could barely see him through the happy tears! The photo taken by the charity as we were united shows this old lady with wild hair and tears running down her face with a very dignified cat.

He’s home now and, very surprisingly, he had cuddles at bedtime. He’s now taken to living on my wardrobe and I think he’s going to be there for a few days. There’s a fair few kitchen things up there and I can see my popcorn machine taking a tumble before the week is out.

It was a day of drama but good drama.

Late last night I got a series of messages via Facebook from an unexpected source. There’s a bit of a back story but it’s brief so bear with me…

Last month I had two very serious episodes of mania. They are very intense and last about 90 minutes. I’m never quite sure if I’m going to survive them not just because of the intensity but also because of the conversation my brain has with itself. One side (and it does feel like sides of my brain not an all over sensation) shouts that the only way to stop the feeling is to kill myself and the other side shouts that I have to hold on because I’ve survived before and I will again.

I’m left exhausted for days and I retreat from the world except for the emergency visit to a GP to have it added to my records and to pick up extra medication if need be. This time a psychiatrist adjusted my medication via a phone consultation so the good old NHS came through for me in a big way.

Between the two episodes, which were just days apart, I had a series of texts from a person I knew on Twitter saying how depressed and anxious they were. I was in the waiting room about to be called in to see my GP when they rang me wailing about how crap they felt and that they needed my help. I had to tell her I’d ring back after I’d seen my GP and I did.

Now this person works in the mental health field, they knew how ill I was and, out of all the people they could have got in touch with they chose to get in touch with me. Perhaps they knew I’d listen but after listening to them as I walked all the way home I was tired and I was tired of them.

There was a third person in the equation who I’d been “introduced” to but, looking back, it felt like I’d been pushed into being into a “friendship” that didn’t seem to make sense. Things got scary there too. Each one of them asking what the other had said about them and what did I think. It just isn’t normal to behave like that.

To cut a long story short I blocked them on social media and on my phone. I rarely do a blanket block because some people just need to have boundaries established and established so that they cannot ignore them. I needed to cut these people out completely though as their behaviour was controlling and, to be frank, a little more than scary.

One of them me the messages on Facebook last night. They wanted things out with me, I was going to pay for what I’d done etc. etc. Since I had no idea what I was being accused of I was polite and refused to argue back and blocked them from there too.

This kind of drama is bad drama, it’s controlling drama, it’s drama that shows that people can be resentful of the attention you get because you have a serious illness and that is sick on so many levels.

So now I’ve stepped backwards a little more. There is one more thing I’m waiting for and it will come as sure as eggs is eggs. I hate waiting round for the inevitable to happen but when it does I am prepared and I am not defenceless.

Bye Bye Mister Fat Feet

Almost 11 years ago I answered a knock on my front door to find a shabby young couple holding a kitten standing on my doorstep.  A neighbour had told this couple that I’d take the kitten off their hands. They told me it was 16 weeks old and had had flea and worm treatments. They then asked for £15 so that they could have an afternoon in the pub.

it was obvious that, if they were selling a kitten for beer, he wouldn’t have been treated for fleas or worms and it was obvious that he was nearer six weeks than 16.

I handed over the money and took him into the bathroom to check him out.  His skin was quite literally crawling with fleas and worms were dropping out of his bottom. He was in a sorry state but there was such a magic about him that made me fall in love with him in an instant.

I took him for a kitten check and to get the treatment he needed to rid him of the worms and fleas. The vet that did the check told me that he had a grade III heart murmur which is linked to circulatory disorders. The fleas would clear quickly but the worms, I was told, would take longer.

I got him castrated when he was around six months old and the worms were still very much present. It eventually got to a point when, at 10 months old, the vet and I were discussing whether or not it would be a good idea to remove a section of Mister’s gut to rid him of the infestation. It seems the worms heard us because shortly after that they disappeared completely.

Mister was left with IBS, he refused to use litter trays and regularly left deposits from either end of his body on the kitchen floor. On the other hand he was a loving, boisterous and confident cat. Workmen visiting the flat for any reason would, more often than not, turn around to find him sat in their toolboxes.

He was loving; generous with paddling his big feet that were little clouds of softness with claws like needles, purrs that were loud enough to record and use as a ringtone, big eyes that hypnotised anyone who happened to glance at them and an amazing talent for falling off windowsills when he drifted off to sleep on them.

I will miss my gorgeous boy with his fat feet and his, at times, overwhelming love. I won’t miss the deposits on the kitchen floor or the frequent hairballs that I invariably stood on when they were just warm and I had sockless feet.

In a few days time I’ll be writing a shopping list and on it will be cat food. I’ll need a third less than I’ve been used to getting and I’ll probably make sure his favourite treats are on the list before I remember that I don’t need to buy them anymore.

Bye bye Mister Fat Feet, I love you.

Insomnia, rats and the cat that won’t stop purring

I am not sleeping well and haven’t been for a month or so now. It’s not the hot weather it’s all bipolar stuff but last night was the worst of all.

I was wide awake until 1.00 when I fell asleep. At 4.30 a great big purring lump jumped on my bed (how he got in the room I don’t know) and began to purr in his loudest voice and his quietest voice is too loud.

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Over the next hour he tortured me with his patting of my face, biting of my toes and knocking things off the bedside table – all accompanied by his incredibly loud purring.

Then Mister decided to play with Ogden so I had purring lump and big dog trying to get under the bed, scattering dust bunnies as they went, thinking it was a jolly jape.

Then the boy rats added to the noise. I adopted the boy rats when I should have said no and they make a lot of noise at night which isn’t helping my insomnia so I think it’s time to rehome them. I don’t want to have animals that I’ll resent and I really can’t cope with them. They don’t really want to be handled and, even though they’re lovely boys, I find it hard to interact with animals that don’t want to interact!

This is all on the back of several nights of little sleep but I have to let them go because if my sanity goes then we’re all paddling up a faeces ladened creek.