My kitty still here :)

About a week after my previous post, I did have something happen. I was asleep and unaware of how much trouble I was having breathing. Then I felt my cat leap from my hip (the left leg was weaker, that’s how I knew it was her). I also hear the hiss of moving beads in my weighted blanket. This woke me up and I was able to deal with my breathing problem. Then for a long time, nothing from her. I felt she was gone.

This morning, I’m awake in bed but not wanting to get up. I hear a meow from the hall. (in her last year, she was a bit senile and would cry when she got lost in the hall.) At first, it didn’t register. Then she meowed again, much louder. I called “I’m in here, baby” then remembered.

I’m not dealing well with her loss. This might be my brain giving me hope she’s still around. I’m okay with that.

I’ve been trying to find another kitten. Not to replace her, nothing will do that. But to fill this cat-shaped hole in my heart. It’s amazing how difficult it is to find a kitten, they’re always gone by the time I find the ad, or they’re too far away. Not driving 6 hours to get to a kitten, then have 6 hours of screaming kitten back.

The universe is against me at the moment. No kitty for the silent scream.

Ghost Kitty

I’d had my best friend for over 20 years. She was my heart, the reason I kept struggling, the reason I stayed here. But her pain became too much and I finally did the unthinkable. I put my kitty to sleep. Oh, god, the pain is still too fresh.

I told my family, I hope the hell she comes back and haunts me, because life without her would be unbearable. So this might be wishful thinking. It might be my mind protecting me from life without her. If so… sure, okay, I’m in.

The day after she passed, I hear a meow. About four feet from me, at ground level, but so faint it sounded like it came from outside. I turn and look at the spot. I say “hey, baby“. And that was it. The meow sounded a little frustrated, as if she’d been trying to get my attention for some time. The interpretation would have been: ‘WTF happened? I wake up from a nap and the world has changed. Mom, are you listening to me? Mom!‘

Then nothing more. I figured that was it, I got a meow, and count myself blessed.

And then – last night.

As usual, I wasn’t asleep. It was so late, it was early. I’m curled up trying hard to go to sleep. I hear a faint meow – coming from the hall, just outside the bathroom door. My heart literally stopped. I debate with myself. The one, single, blessing I got from her passing, was I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to feed her. She was a night eater. It was hard enough in the last couple of years, but I’d be damned if I was going to get up for a cat that doesn’t need food!

This has been her routine for a couple of years. Go use the sand box. Announce it loudly, until someone (me) came and inspected it, told her she was a good girl (and yes, I was blessed she remembered where her box was. She was going senile at this point. And yes, she wouldn’t stop yelling until I told her she was a good girl.)

So I debate, get up or not? And I concluded I would hate myself if she made the effort to appear and I ignore it. I check the time. 5:30 am. Her usual time for wanting to be fed. I got up.

I have not gone to the bathroom alone in over 20 years. The last couple of weeks has been rough, not having her guard me as I did my business. I got up, used the toilet, said; ‘Okay, baby, let’s go to bed.’, in the hope that 1) she wouldn’t demand I ‘feed’ her and 2) she might actually come. I get in bed and hope I feel a little bounce and weight movement – but nothing. But I had a meow! And that made me happy, even if it was at the crack of dawn. I fell asleep.

A couple of hours later, I wake up, bladder insistence. I lever myself up, so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed – and freeze. Again, my heart skips a beat. Under my palm was a wet spot. It was freezing cold.

She didn’t do it all the time, but she frequently drooled in her sleep. And my bed has an electric blanket – there are no cold spots on my bed.

I turn the light on and check the sheet. There is no way a ghost kitty could leave physical evidence, right? I mean, I really don’t know, but I checked with the light on. There was no wet spot. But it was cold there, warming as I touched it.

Did my baby sleep with me? I want to say yes. But if she didn’t, if it’s just my mind protecting me from the grief, I’m okay with that.

Recording Interruptous.

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned I do art, watercolors specifically. I have a youtube channel where I post my works. This involved planning, painting, editing and uploading completed video. I try and do one a week. I do more when I’m well and schedule them out, so when I get sick, things are still going up.

I’m not the greatest artist – only been painting a year – but I put a lot of effort into it. And learning editing isn’t easy. Even though my subscribers are really small, I do my best.

Three or four video’s back, I realized something. Whenever I’m recording, partner comes in and makes noise. I have explained to him this creates a lot of work for me and please don’t come in when I’m recording. So this one video, he comes in and starts talking. I tell him I’m recording, he says okay, and continues to talk. Again, I said I’m recording – and a third time. He just continued. It made me realize – he does this all the time. That one recording was so corrupted with his talking, I actually just said screw it and didn’t post it at all. He’s come in, made tea (kettle sounds, sharp spoon on cup crashes), smoked, washed dishes, walked across the floor with sharp crack sounds of flip flops (he never before or since made that sound).

This last video, he comes in and stares at me. I continue painting, I say not a word. After about 1 minute, and I’m starting to get creeped out, he walks over, lights a cigarette. He slides glass things across the counter. Turns on the kettle. Makes tea. Washes a pan, slaps it onto the stove. Comes over to me and says: I washed the frying pan for you. I nod, silent. He comes closer, blocking my light. Stands there a minute. Grunts and leaves. This is the eighth video he has interrupted. Eighth. You need to realize, I can’t complain. He was doing something nice! Washing a frying pan, unasked. Or he would have said, if I’d made a fuss. I wonder if my silence cock-blocked that strategy?

He does everything he can to disrupt, break or corrupt my possessions or work. Then praises my art. There’s got to be a word for this, but I don’t remember or know what it is.

Here’s another example. I’m doing a recording, he comes in and starts the clothes washer. Never comes back. Next day, I’m doing a second recording. He opens the washer and starts snapping the wrinkles out of the clothing. Really loud. I’d swear he threw out a shoulder. I say, I’m trying to record! He says: I’ll just be a minute. Twenty minutes later, he’s finally run out of clothes to snap.

Eight videos in a row. That’s two months of uploads. Every single time I’m recording. What a dick move.

Well, this is new.

I’ve been sick since march 14th, 2020. Covid. Although at the time, they weren’t testing anyone who wasn’t a movie star, athlete, military, medical or political figure. I was a classic case even with their ever changing symptoms list. Ever since then, I have had fatigue spikes. Basiclly, I’m exhausted 3 weeks, then get a week that reminds myself what human feels like. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I am reluctant to talk to my partner about this because he believes if you have/had covid, you’re dead. If you’re not dead, you don’t/didn’t have covid. We’ll get back to this.

Seven days ago, I couldn’t breath. Went to hospital where they said, yo, lookit that, your white blood cell count is high, wonder what that could be? Well, off you go home, be sure to come back if you know, like, die. No covid test was done and I honestly have no fucking clue why.

Three days later, my nose starts running. Now, by that I mean not the sniffles, but when you look down it’s like turning on a faucet. Running. Get (or continue?) fatigue, the usual symptoms for me, yadda yadda, ad nauseum. As I said, I’m reluctant to bring it up with partner. But I do.

_{Me: I got a runny nose …
Him: you don’t have covid.
Me: I don’t have covid.}

And that was pretty much it. I noticed a couple of days later, my emotions were riding a little high. Higher than normal for me. I was getting angry. Like, really angry. And sad. Really sad. Nightmares about skinwalkers and trying to kill them. My hearing was super alert. Falling asleep is hard, but once sleeping it’s good – but fatigue still grinding me down. I’ve been sick for what, 7 months. I’m exhausted. And angry. I’m not being listened to, even the doctors don’t fucking care.

Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting. I stopped feeling my emotions. I could tell they were still there. I ‘felt’ the angry. But I didn’t feel it at all. ‘Oh, there’s a spoon on the counter’ gave me the same emotional punch as the anger. It feels blank. Distant. Muted? I can still tell there’s an emotion, but it doesn’t affect me. And I know what triggered this.

A few hours ago, partner comes up to me and starts telling me how the pains in his back are concerning him, cause he doesn’t know what it is, and what if he’s having a heart attack and can’t tell?

I just looked at him, nodding, emoting, you know how it goes. And in my head, I’m saying: Well, when I came to you asking about possible heart attacks, you’re response was: it’s a good way to die. It’s perfectly in my personality to have said it out loud. But I didn’t. The anger needed to say it wasn’t there. Well, it was there, but it was…blanketed. It was just – not sure how to put it. Pointless. The anger is pointless. The sadness is pointless. Fear is pointless, I can’t control anything – not the covid, not the doctor, not a sociopath partner who’s trying to kill me. It’s all just pointless.

Covid or not covid

Sunday last, I was in the hospital all day. Couldn’t breathe, called emergency. Blood tests showed elevated white blood cell counts. Blood ox 95-97, no temp. Took an Xray. They didn’t give me a covid test.

Someone put up a big red notice on the door across the hall, saying it couldn’t be used until it was deep cleaned. A woman went in with a bowl of something, guessing water and bleach, and a sponge. Came out 5 minutes later, wiped down the door and left. A ‘deep clean’ it was not. If they didn’t deep clean that room, they didn’t deep clean the room I was in.

Of the four people who saw me while I was there, only one washed their hands when leaving. All wore masks.

So, 3 days later and my nose starts to run. Not the sniffles. Say, you tilt her head down and a tap is turned on. That was my nose. Checked temp; normal. Checked blood ox, 93-97.

Today’s conversation with partner.

me: I got a runny nose.

him: you don’t have covid. (note; with him, if you have covid, your dead. If you’re not dead, you dont have covid)

M: I dont have covid. (been here, done this, dont need the rodeo again)

H: do you have a fever?

M: No. Runny nose, sore throat, new cough, bad wheeze.

H: new cough? Not your normal cough?

M: no. New. Not triggered in the lungs, more like the throat. (After this convo, coughing now hurts my lungs like a mo-fo.)

H: want me to sleep here tonight? (kind of surprised at this.) (He’s 90% deaf, he couldn’t hear me unless I screamed)

M; I just took all my meds, lets see how it goes.

I’m feeling okay right now, but before I took my meds, I didn’t feel so hot. I keep hearing about groups for people who have long term after effects of covid, but I’m not in any of them. Never been tested, so it’s only going by what I know of the symptoms.

I’m fucking exhausted.

Nope, not dead.

Although you would be excused if you thought I was. I’m not sure how long it’s been since I posted but figure it’s somewhere between Forever and The Dawn of Time.

I hade covid19 in march, took 6 weeks to get over it and recover. Had a good month after that. Then I got a fatigue spike that lasted a week. Then two weeks to recover from that. Then I had another good week! Then it was lather, rinse, repeat for … 4 god damned months. I am currently in a ‘good week’. I’ve been thinking of this site so decided it was time to make a post, even if it’s brief.

It’s hard to recover when you have the energy of a wet noodle. Hard to cook for yourself. Asking my partner to cook is pretty pointless when he has about 5 things he can, or at least is willing to admit to, being able to cook. I can’t eat that many eggs or tuna sandwiches. I finally bought some super quick meals – like ramens, instant oats and polenta – and I’ve been able to cook a 3 minute meal. I’m hopeful having a full belly, and rest, will enable me to actually recover.

I’ve been painting a year now. Although not that much lately. But it’s honestly the only thing keeping my sanity. The bottom line, however, is I’m tired. And depressed. And sad.

Maybe I’ll get over it. Maybe I won’t. But I ain’t dead yet, so there’s that.

That Thing Called Happy

It was a strange experience, that feeling called happy. I realized I’d not felt this emotion in a very long time. No spontaneous laughter, although I’ve giggled at jokes now and then. My default is caution, guarded. It didn’t last long, this happy thing, but at least I know the thing exists.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned I’ve taken up watercolor painting. I started back in october, before coronavirus. I’ve not done any art in 40 years and I’d never done watercolor. It’s fun. I am amazed at my progress. I wish I’d taken it up years ago. I see these kids doing amazing art and I think, dayam, I could have been that good if I’d kept at it. But real life takes over and sometimes the fun stuff falls off to the side.

I saw my improvement. It made me happy. I even, briefly, thought of what I could do with another 20 years. If I improved that much in six months, how much could I improve in 20 years? I’ve been living day to day, week to week for so long, 20 years feels like a lifetime. And honestly, realistically, I don’t think I’ll go another three or four years, due to illness or murder. But for just a few minutes, I had a hope I would go another 20 years, be happy, make good art.

Of course it faded. But for a brief moment, I had a happy.

I Screwed Up Again

Damn it all. I think I know what I did wrong. See, I’ve always caved in when told something is too hard to do. After 20 years living here, I am STILL not on the lease. I signed the lease at the start, but his mother wasn’t there. I had to go out of the country for a couple of months. When I got back, they had signed a new lease – him and his mother. (My clothes were packed in boxes, too lol.) And ever since then, when I’ve asked to be put on, it’s been ‘too hard’, to get all of us together at the same time. I said, okay. And the next time, and the next time, I asked, same thing, too hard. Last time I asked, his mother no longer lives with us, but it’s still ‘too hard’. Caved, it’s just not worth the stress of pushing for it.

I had the perfect opportunity to ask for ‘my’ money, that he holds in a family account. So I did. Gave a perfectly valid reason for it. He’s told me, just ask for it, I’ll give it to you. I asked. The next day, he comes in and says, really, it’s too hard. Have to travel, questions asked, bank transfer might cause problems. All truthful and valid reasons. But I held firm. It’s my money. I want it, in my hand. We had a long-winded ‘discussion’ about it. I ended up saying I’d think about it, cause he just wasn’t budging. I’ve got to think of a valid way of sticking to my guns.

The next day, he comes in and says; there’s no good way of asking this, but are you planning on leaving me? And I know why he came to that conclusion. Because I didn’t cave. I always cave.

I said; No. Just that. He acted like he believed it. I don’t know if he actually did.

I had also had a conversation with a psychiatrist who offered me a way out. I had partners phone, and I spoke quietly, but he still may have heard a word or two. I told her I wanted a way out. He might have heard, I don’t think so, but maybe.

I want that money. I need that money. I can’t start all over again in a country not my own, with zero family or friends or funds for support. If I don’t get that money, I don’t go.

I had this whole fantasy of venting on him. His sociopathic tendency. His attempted murder attempts. His constant lying. It felt good – but I also know it would be the stupidist thing I could possibly do.

No money, no go.

Hammer Time.

The last time we used a tool was about six months ago and that was a screw driver. I can’t remember when we had need of a hammer. Years? Decades? I just realized today, I’ve seen a hammer in the bathroom for the last two weeks. Didn’t think anything of it. But…

Why is there a (really large, heavy duty) hammer in our bathroom, next to the toilet?

He’s never closed the door when on the throne (disability made it so people may need to get to him fast. Can’t have a closed or locked bathroom door.). And I just got into the habit. And the cat can’t use the handle, so we have the door open for her, too. We have wandered in and out, with one of us using the pot, it’s totally part of our natural routine. Even the cat thinks toilet breaks are actually social times and requests pets.

I ‘saw’ the hammer today and my mind went to a dark place.

Lockdowns have increased domestic abuse. I’m always on the look out now. I never expected my partner to use physical assalt (you can’t pretend to be innocent when your knuckle pattern is on her cheek) but he may be getting tired of my continuing existance.

I’m not getting very good sleep. I think I’ll ask about the hammer, see what he comes up with. Should be inventive!

Edit: I asked him why there was a hammer in the bathroom. He says he knows he took it in but has no idea why.

Good Boi / Bad Boi

It goes in cycles, it always does. We have a time when he acts like a normal, supportive human being. Almost the man I fell in love with 20 years ago. Then something happens. Sometimes I’m aware what the trigger is, but not always. We just finished the bad boy thing, very nasty, trying to kill me via coronavirus, getting his friend to tell me I don’t have covid19, when I did. The snark, the sneer, the rolled eyes. That’s over now. Now he’s in his good boy phase.

This is to lull me in a very false sense of security. All is good! He loves me! He praises me! He tells me I am brilliant. Then, when I’m not expecting it, whammy, sucker punch to the kidneys. It’s coming. I know it’s coming. I don’t know the exact date, I don’t know what it’ll be, but it’s coming.

I give it three to four weeks. Then he’ll do something.