When The Night Wind Howls

I think the picture speaks for itself, especially on this day of all days, Halloween, my least favorite time of the year.

I guess I've been burnt so many times with people putting on a false face and taking me for a ride, is the reason I'm not in the mood to look at a lot of people wearing masks when it gets dark at night, especially children, because I think they can be the cruelest of all human beings when they set their mind to it.

And I think that cruelty comes from the parents, who they mimic and see as role models, role models the child doesn't mind being like, because they live their entire life trying to please one or more of their parents. Really, they don't owe their parents anything. Sure, they raised them, fed them, clothed them, but did they truly love them? The child, in their soul of souls, think they did indeed, love them.

In some families, I think the word "love" is thrown around too often and too falsely = no meaning or feeling connected to it. They love their child (or children)  as long as they make them proud. Some parents live their lives through their offspring and take pride in their accomplishments like they have, too, accomplished that goal the child has managed to accomplish, whatever it is.

When the child decides to become their true self, if the parents don't agree with that choice, they turn their backs on that child. If the child picks a lifestyle or profession the parents are proud of, they can't do or say enough to people about their "children = I'm so proud of all my children" = each compliment having a ring of falseness in its tone.

Cynical? = perhaps = you be the judge, I'm not being the judge, I'm just expressing my feelings, my opinions and besides, we all live in a glass house, so I'm not going to throw any stones.

People don't take me seriously when I talk or when I do something = they fall back on "well, he is mentally ill, so therefore he must be making all that stuff up". Well, news flash, I'm not making it up.

My opinions, my feelings don't seem to matter, no one seems to be interested in people my age because they think "he's set in his ways and he's not going to change" = well, duh, that's a given.

My most loyal companions have been my  pets = and in that respect, I have been accused of having so many pets around me because they "can't talk back, they don't have an opinion they can voice".

Loyalty lies in the love they show me and have shown me over the years, not so of some of the people I have had the misfortune of crossing paths with.

People stayed close to me, as long as I agreed with everything they said, listened to all their "tales of woe", helped them out financially, gave them a place to stay, put food on their table, chauffeured them around anywhere they wanted to, and like I said, listened endlessly to  "their tales of woe" = but when I finally stood up and said "enough is enough" = they turned their back and waked away and never showed their presence in my life again, which has been a blessing for me. Because, to share your life and your space with someone who ultimately turns out to be the one who betrays you by not being thankful for all you have done for them, they just walk away, just walk away, the harshest form of betrayal.

My education, which I worked my ass off to accomplish, has often been thrown up in my face, making me "prove" my intelligence and know-how by answering any question thrown at me = they relish it when I don't know the answer = they make jokes about my sexual identity = treat my life as a joke, a punchline they can't wait to throw at me. After all, a man "living with all those cats can't possibly be someone to be taken seriously". And I'm supposed to look up to these people who say "all my children, I'm proud of all of them" as if to make a point, feeling pride, living their life through them. I don't live my life through anyone else. It is what it is = my life is what it is = I am what I am = 

Are you a wolf in sheep's clothing or is that just the face you are going to put on tonight?

I ventured out today on this beautiful October day, didn't feel like getting out, but I had to run an errand in Morehead and go to the Dollar Store, so off I went.

When I got to the place where I was going to run my errand, the receptionist asked me if I was OK. I said, "Just a bit wobbly".

Fact is = I was disoriented, not attached to the real world, should not have been out by myself but I was, had nobody to drive me to where I needed to go. I left that office, drove to the BP station, got me a large cup of coffee and a carved turkey sandwich at Subway's. The person who was making the sandwich asked me if I was OK and asked me if she could help me get a cup of coffee. It dawned on me as I made my way back to the house that people saw me differently than the person I saw in the bathroom mirror before I left on my journey to the outside world.

Fact is, the MS had been "relapsing" the last couple of days and that is the way my physical body presented itself to the public. I know there are other people suffering from MS, but for a 71-year-old to suffer from it, according to my doctors, "it is almost always fatal" = I'm living on "borrowed time" = never wanted to say that before but I'm saying it here for the first time = two doctors have told me that prognosis. I have told people otherwise, but what I just said is the real truth. I'm taking all my medicine the doctors prescribed for me in July for the pneumonia and the long-lasting symptoms that come with it, I'm following the diet the doctors prescribed to keep my weight down, to make my physical body as comfortable as possible, but nothing I do at this point can stop the inevitable outcome of this illness from happening = it is what it is = I am walking that Final Mile, day by day, week by week, month by month and year by year.

I can't help but wonder what kind of footprints my "father" left behind in his 81 years here on earth. The man I was always told was my father, even though his name did not appear on my birth certificate, was born in 1888, 

twenty-three years after Lincoln's assassination!! = and my father died in 1969. He died in his garden of a stroke = I have a picture of him = someone told me he was in his 60s when the picture was taken = but I picture him in a straw hat working in the garden like his ancestors had, toiling to make a living, shuffling through his journey of life, leaving his footprints somewhere in the soil of the garden.

Never got the chance to measure myself against him, never felt the need to, but always felt an emptiness in my heart and soul of something missing.

Tried to fill that emptiness over the years but not succeeding, even my marriage was an attempt to do that, to no avail. When I talk of "I did this" and "I did that" up until 1989, I was really with my wife, but when she invalidated our marriage in 2010 by telling me of her affairs, I don't feel it necessary to put her name in the narrative of my life, because she betrayed me by doing something she always accused me of doing, having several affairs.

She had her single female friends, but when I made friends with a single guy, she always wanted to meet him. One time, I made the mistake of introducing her to one of my single male friends at work and she verbally pinned him to the wall, because she "disagreed" with his philosophy of life. The 2010 "breakup" we finally went through was when she became hateful and virulently spiteful in a bunch of emails to me and her "real" self came out. So, to me, she doesn't belong in the narrative of my life. Neither does my father, actually, because he was a non-person to me all my life and continues to be so.

My life today shows the burden of sadness and sickness that have shaped my soul and mind and my physical body = the way I walk, the way I talk, my emotional outbursts, my desire to be alone except for my babies, not trusting anyone, not being able to communicate on a human's level, because, to me, they always have a hidden agenda. I can sense the negative vibes in a person as soon as I meet them. I know it's not politically correct to judge a person on one's first impression, but honestly, I do. Only a few have passed the test and I have let them into my house and into my life, but only a select few. Until they betray me, if they do, then all bets are off.

This has been and is my journey = it's been a long and winding road, but it's been my journey = I own it = every curve and bump in it. I know I will be alone when I make my final journey to the Pearly Gates, but I know there is something great waiting for me there = Eternal Peace, for one thing and a reunion with all my babies.

My babies have become my life, I am indeed a member of the "Cat World" and proud to be one, but I also love and respect all animals, trying to be their voice because they cannot speak, so this is the picture I have of myself when I only have one baby left.

When he or she is gone, I will go right behind them, either with God's help or finding my own way to leave this Earth, or maybe the MS will do its "dirty deed" = because there is no way I could go on living in an empty house and staring at an empty front porch where their footprints and scratch marks will be there for all Eternity. The footprints of my life's journey will no longer make an impression as I get to the End of the Road, only the memories people have of me and of the marks, if any, I leave behind.

Excuse Me While I Disappear

Some people say I rescued and adopted my cats because they can't talk back to me and they can't disagree with anything I say.

I say "they talk to me, not back at me" and I do prefer their company over humans any day of the week. If you're not comfortable with that part of my life, you need to walk the other way.

An article in last week's Outlook spoke of being alone and liking your own company = I agree with that, I love to be (not alone, I have my 8 babies) free of human contact.

Today is a good example of beautiful weather, loving my babies and feeling an odd sense of peace and well-being, rarities for me. Add a much-needed cup of coffee, the New York Times Saturday crossword puzzle, some crackers and cheese and it's a pleasant day.

I have also found out that some of my babies who wouldn't sit next to me or sit on my lap now do so with eagerness. Baby-Doo occupied that space for many years and the others just stood back and watched and waited for their turn. In Baby-Doo's absence, they have re-thought their choices. My beloved Baby-Doo's spirit lives strongly in my heart and mind, so he still has a place with me and that will always be true, no matter how old I get before Jesus leads me to my new Home.

Sixty years ago, all was not well in my mind = there was not a sense of well-being and peace of mind, and there would not be any for many, many years = I didn't know at the time that what was happening to me was verbal, emotional and mental abuse, but I learned over the years from all the psychiatric visits I scheduled, that it was indeed, abuse in its strongest form. I still have nightmares about the man who inflicted that upon me.

He was a young red-headed stranger to me when he drove up to our house on Sour Springs Road in 1956 in his white convertible with a black top. I sensed something wasn't right about him as soon as I met him and I knew instinctively to stay away from him and I was proven right.

He became my mother's boyfriend and I knew not to disagree with him on anything or stand up for myself or disobey "one of his rules" = consequences would be paid, in spades.

He never physically hit me, but he would back me into a corner, literally, in the house and spew his venom directly into my face. After a while, I taught myself how to "disappear" from the situation. Later, I was told by my psychiatrist it was a form of "disassociative behavior" = not a split personality, but putting myself into another place where things were OK and peaceful and non-threatening. That's what I think I'm arriving at currently, keeping to myself, creating my own safe world and calling all the shots, being independent and private and happy with being alone. But the nightmares of him still haunt me, 60 years after the fact. He died a long time ago, but, in my mind, I can see him as he was the first day I met him.

I have forgiven my Mom a long time ago for letting him do that to me and my sister, but I know now she suffered from bi-polar disorder, just like I do and there was no medicine back then to help her cope with her mental demons. This stranger took advantage of her mental state and dictated every choice she made about me and my sister.

Between the ages of 11 and 16, my life on earth became a living Hell.

= excuse me while I disappear =

All people have 2 faces they wear = one for the public, one they put on behind closed doors = I had to put on my public persona today because I had to go out and mingle with the public, but as soon as I got back to my "nest", I put on my regular face, you know, the old face and the bald head and the wrinkles and talking to my babies =  not "at" them, but "to" them.

I dread those trips out in the public = I have really begun to dread them = takes me a long time to mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of humans out there who I prefer not to connect with. They seem to stare at me, maybe they're not doing that, but I do sometimes catch middle-aged men with the beer-bellies and frowns on their face, looking me up and down. I know my feminine side is apparent and there's nothing I can do about it and the more weight I lose, the more feminine I become, but it's a no-brainer for me = to stay healthy so I can survive as long as I can = I follow the diet the heart doctor put me on back in July when he discharged me from the hospital.

The near-fatal bout with pneumonia and the death of Baby=Doo in the same month shattered something inside me that has left me living a surreal existence, where I want to disappear, with my babies of course, to a place where no one will ever see me again.

Is it an irrational thought? = probably so = but my mind works that way now. Do I have to explain it to people around me? = no = the people who are close to me in a sincere way accept me for who I am and how I present myself to them, don't need to explain much of anything to them. If they try and "fix" me in any way, they can walk away and let me live my life as I choose = I don't need their approval or advice at this time in my life = just let me be and =

= excuse me while I disappear = 

= into the Vast Unknown =

4 Roses Under A Tulip Tree

Some people say I'm mentally challenged.

Some people say I'm emotionally challenged.

Some people say I'm too emotional, too sensitive.

Well, even if they're right, I make no apologies for any of my characteristics or traits. It is who I am and I am surprised by the few number of close friends I have that they tolerate this in me, but they do, stick by me, have my back. And I have a lot of emotional baggage.

In the early morning hours of October 6, 2009, everything in my life changed and I still carry those scars from that morning on my soul and on my heart.

I had rescued Maggie the Cat from a tree in front of my rental house on High Street. The fire department came and helped me get her down out of the tree. She immediately "adopted" me as her Mama and was by my side constantly. I could hear her playing at night, batting a pop bottle lid around on the linoleum floor.

I had other babies I had rescued but she soon blended in with the rest of the family.

I went to bed early on October 6, 2009 and tossed and turned because I had just been fired from a job that I loved. Maggie was sleeping on my chest, nuzzled on my neck. I let my emotions and anger get the best of me and I jumped out of bed and staggered against the recliner sitting by the bed, where Beanie, my oldest baby, was sleeping. The recliner tilted a little bit and my anger must have frightened Maggie, because she jumped under the recliner and it fell on her little body.

My heart almost stopped and I pulled her out from under the chair, but it was too late, she died in my arms. I cradled her in one of my quilts and placed her on the couch. I called a friend of mine and she took Maggie to hold her for me until I could find a place to bury her.

One minute she was nuzzling my neck, all warm and cozy and loving and the next minute she was gone.

All these years, that memory has not been erased. It shattered my heart and soul and forever emotionally damaged me. I could not, and still can't, relieve myself of the guilt that I caused her death. That is why I picked a spot out for her under a tulip tree in a pet cemetery, in a beautiful setting I know she would have loved to have jumped and played in, but she was never going to get to do that.

Another friend of mine made Maggie a little wooden casket and I put some of her favorite toys in it with her = the pop bottle lid she loved to play with on the floor and I wrapped her tiny casket in one of my jackets and wrapped the arms around her. From that day forward, after having put the dirt on top of her grave, my heart and soul would never be the same. All these years later, I am still damaged goods.

The night I went over to my friend's house to pick up Maggie in her tiny casket, for burial the next day, a lady passing by the open window of my car, said "there is this baby who looks to be starving, looks like he has been in a fight" = she handed him to me, a big orange and white cat who nuzzled against my chest and started to purr loudly. I took him home, called him Darby. Maggie sent him to me, absolutely. I was in the right place at the right time.

Darby, the night I rescued him.

I went on and continued to rescue strays = my heart wasn't in it, but I did it to save their lives and I would do it again in a heartbeat. The next August, Beanie passed away at home, in the exact same spot where Maggie had died.

This is Beanie with Maggie.

To say I am emotionally damaged would be an understatement. I have always been very emotional, very sensitive, but Maggie's death and my part in it damaged my very heart and soul and continues to do so today.

I ordered a wooden cross with Maggie's name on it, so her grave would be recognizable when I visited it. That is where I want to be, my ashes scattered on her grave, to protect her. I saved her once, but couldn't save her twice. Her spirit has found a place in my heart. My grief for her is still very present. Her memory has not faded.

She will always be the little cat in the tree, Maggie the cat who loved to play with a pop bottle lid and nuzzle my neck, all the while stealing my heart.

My beloved baby Maggie, I miss you so.