The Artist Formerly Known as Cat Boy

I hadn’t taken an Ativan in over a year; I took one this morning. I can’t even begin to explain the feeling I have in knowing that I am not emotionally stable enough to do something as simple as care for an animal without the aid of narcotics.

I don’t know if I simply do not want to be responsible for another life, or if I am actually incapable of it. Well, I know the first is true, I just don’t know if the latter is as well. I do not want to have to spend the next fifteen to twenty years being responsible for keeping something else alive.

I have done that. I graduated high school and moved into a house–not a dorm, or an apartment, or some other situation conventional to my age. I moved into a house, and I was largely responsible for the house and for the cats who resided in it.

I cleaned litter boxes, trimmed claws, fed, bathed, medicated, administered fluids to them when they were sick and dehydrated, held one while he had seizures, held most of them while they died. I did that and I cannot say that I regret it entirely, but it was twenty years of my life in which I sometimes made choices and sacrifices based on several somebodies who licked their asses.

I told people repeatedly that I didn’t want another pet, and they insisted once I got one I would change my mind. I said I was quite happy with my Plecostomus and my outdoor birds and squirrels. They balked. And I allowed myself to believe what they said because I really do enjoy being around animals, in particular cats.

But once one was in my house and it became real, I felt instantly like someone drowning. Yesterday, just thinking about what taking care of an animal for the entirety of its life involves made me nauseous.

So I took an Ativan this morning, a drug I hoped I no longer required. I have not chosen to take the cat back to the pet rescue which defies all reason. Instead, I am going to for the time being, go back on the medications that allow me to do the things normal people often do without a second thought.

I can always choose to take the cat back later if things do not improve (he’s already a year old, another month won’t make him less adoptable); but a part of me still has to ask: If a person requires drugs to cope with something as routine as caring for an animal, should that person be caring for an animal?

PS. I am less bitter and disdainful on meds, but I am also less humorous, so there’s no telling what this blog will be like.

PPS. I probably shouldn’t publish this, but I’m going to anyway because I found it to be a cathartic experience and if it helps just one person, it will have been worth exposing myself.  Isn’t that the kind of crap pseudo-famous people say when they write a book?  Like them, I’m just doing it for the cash.

PPPS. Oh, that’s right.