A Personal Plea, Part 3

The rest of the school year is a blur. Bits and snatches of continued bullying, continued sexual harassment, etc. I remember breaking down sobbing in the hall outside of my history classroom, and rummaging through my backpack for anything I could use to kill myself with. I remember holding my metal compass in my hand, and looking at the point on it, wondering if I could do the job with that. I remember holing up in a bathroom stall, trying to get myself together. And I remember three of those five boys, going out of their way to "accidentally" bump, brush, or even grab my chest or my butt. It was only those three. Never others. But sometimes, one of their friends would see it and smirk. I remember begging God to let me die, or make me never ever go back to that school. Begging to wake up and find it all a bad dream. Begging for God to let one of the teachers see it. Of course, none of that ever happened.

There is one massive event I do NOT remember. The only reason I know it happened, is that the school counselor told my mom, who then told me. And my friend Brittany was there, and remembers. The 6th graders only had half lockers, and they all lined the wall in a "U" shape on the second floor outside the science room. Apparently, one afternoon, several of the kids had surrounded me, blocking the exit from the locker area. It was the kids in front and beside me, and the lockers behind me. They started calling me a "bitch," but in the literal sense- they were calling me a female dog, not a female jerk. They started telling me to bark and roll over. And I did. And they were laughing when the counselor apparently saw and intervened. My mom still chokes up and has trouble finishing when talking about that, 21 years later. Like I said, I have zero memory of that event. I hear it, and it seems like it's about someone else. That's one of the big stories Mom would tell when getting me evaluated for Autism and other psychological issues.

I may not remember it, but I know enough about trauma and psychology to say, it's still there in my head. It had such an impact on me, that I literally blocked it out. But it's still there, whether I can find it or not. And I can also tell you exactly why I rolled over and barked like a dog, even though I can't remember ever doing it. Those kids crushed my soul. They crushed my will and my desire to live. They absolutely obliterated my previously healthy self-esteem, and that lasted for nearly two decades. I was trapped, I was being mocked, I was desperate. They weren't going to let me go, even if I sat down and did nothing. They'd keep taunting and mocking until, yet again, I broke. I'm not sure I even cared anymore. I'm not sure I had any will left to resist. I may not remember this, but thinking about that 12 year old little girl, absolutely breaks my heart. I was entirely broken. The only thing left to do when your abuser completely breaks you, and you can't get out, is to give them what they want. So I did. I reduced myself to an animal, because I didn't know what else to do. No one had really protected me. No one had succeeded in making it go away. Fighting back never worked.

Mercifully, the school year came to an end, and that year of hell was over. But the trauma remained. Some people like to say that a person's past is their past, and it doesn't define them. That's partially true. The thing about trauma, is that it actually can rewire parts of your neurology. It can also actually rewrite parts of your DNA. When those things happen, they're not ever fully in the past. Sure, healing can occur, growth can happen. The actual events are in the past and they don't define you. But in very real, very concrete, and very biological, scientific ways, the past is also partly your present. That's the cruel truth of PTSD. When Traumas rewire your neurology, and actually alter your DNA, they stay with you in ways you can't help. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not a victim. That's what this whole blog is all about. Facing reality, facing my fears, and facing the truth. Living in spite of my fears. I'm not going through all of this because I'm wallowing, or I'm held down by the past. I'm writing all of this as a plea for you all to please try and understand how trauma victims, including myself, live.

As I said, the school year ended, and that hell was over. But what I didn't know, is that the one year of hell behind me may have been done, but I had nine more years of an entirely different kind of hell in front of me. Homeschooling would prove not to be the safe haven my parents had been hoping for. That story, though, begins in Part 4. 

A Personal Plea, Part 2

Over the next days and weeks, the comments continued, and got increasingly more graphic in nature. It spread from the initial two boys, to three others, as well. I don't remember exactly when I told my parents, who were already aware of the fairly extreme bullying, but when I did, my mom, especially, was livid. That was the first time I heard the phrase, "sexual harassment." I didn't even really understand what that meant. But I did start to understand why this felt worse than the other bullying. Quite simply, it was.

I started being greeted with "jiggle, jiggle" during gym class, while walking up the stairs, while walking down the hall. If I bent over, I was faced with other comments about "spillage," or a "leaking dam." Though there were only five boys who participated, there were several other boys- and girls- who would laugh at it, and egg it on. I even had girls at school who would pretend to be my friend, and then put their arm around me or link arms with me, awkwardly holding me in place while the boys would continue with their harassment. I didn't know how to make it stop. Nothing I would do worked. Eventually, I just gave in. I just started standing there and letting them.

My mom had called the school about the bullying many, many times, but the school wouldn't really do much. Finally, when my mom called them, yelling, about my sexual harassment, they did something. Not much. They called in the parents of the boys involved for a conference. Apparently, the boys got detention or something, I'm a bit hazy on the details. But not much happened, beyond a few repeated meetings. I remember the only encounters I ever had with a fairly well-known baseball player had to do with his son being one of the perpetrators. It's hard to get justice when you're at an elite, expensive school, and your parents can only afford tuition, and nothing else, and your abusers are the sons of bank presidents, prominent doctors, and professional athletes. Yes, money matters. So does gender. To some extent, it was my fault, because I didn't just keep my mouth shut, and I had the audacity to be in the 6th grade with a bra size far larger than my mother and some of my teachers. It was partly my fault, because I let it bother me, when boy were just being boys. It was partly my fault because I wouldn't defend myself. But really, my only offenses while at that school were being "poor" (we were solidly Middle Class, and I know that, but merely Middle Class was poor there), being Autistic, being big for my age, and being female.  After a while, the school just stopped dealing with things. I don't know why my parents left me there a whole school year. I don't know why they didn't pull me out before June. I don't know why they didn't do everything in their power to protect me. They didn't mean to let me down, but they did. And I'm still paying for that.

That Spring, the touching started. I remember how it started. I don't remember much else. I have an unusually good memory. But things got so traumatic for me that spring, I have huge blank spots in my memory. I can tell you where I got just about every piece of clothing and toy and accessory in every picture I'm in from about the age of 4 on. I can tell you what kind of soap we used when I was a kid, and when we switched from Zest to Dial. I can tell you when my dad switched from Prell shampoo to Head and Shoulders. My point is, I have a freakishly good memory. So the fact that I can't remember very significant chunks of time and very significant events from that Spring, is monumental.

It started between classes during my afternoon rotation. I think it was between Bible and history. I was in the school atrium, after coming down the steps from Bible class. The boy who had started it all, we'll call him "E," approached me with one of the other five boys, we'll call him "M." E told me that M wanted to be my boyfriend. I had no idea what was going on, and I had zero skills in dealing with these things. I just wanted it to go away. I didn't know if they were serious or not. What might seem obvious to the Neurotypical child is not at all obvious to the Autistic child. So I went with it. I said okay. They started laughing at me. M came up beside me, put his arm around me, and said, "No, Kathleen, you'll never be anyone's girlfriend. God obviously made you to be a hooker, otherwise he would never have made your boobs so big." As he pulled his arm away, his hand drifted down and briefly- but clearly intentionally- brushed my butt. All I remember is wanting to throw up and wanting to die, in that moment. I don't remember anything from the rest of the day. I remember feeling incredibly worthless. Incredibly violated.

I know that throughout the year, my mom would ask me if the boys were touching me. Once they started, I kept telling her no. Things were already bad enough with the plain bullying, and the harassment. If she knew they were molesting me- which is legally classified as sexual assault- things would get so much worse. I could barely survive things the way they were, and I was more of a problem to  the school than anything else. This is why I never reported my sexual assault. And until now, very, very few people have even known about it. Some of my closest friends haven't even heard about it. My parents knew nothing about it until this week. Had I reported it, maybe my parents would have pulled me out. I can see that as an adult. But I honestly don't know if they would have. Had they not, I knew then- and still know now- that I would have been nothing more than a further burden to the school. A lot of the teachers didn't even know how bad it was. The kids didn't do it around them. The teachers and administration thought I was exaggerating. I wasn't. Reporting would have caused way more problems, and solved none. So I kept my mouth shut, which is probably exactly what they wanted. 

A Personal Plea, Part 1

I've been struggling with how to write this post since Wednesday. I still don't know exactly how to go about it, so please bear with me. I don't write this to condemn anyone. I do write this to explain where I'm coming from, and what I've been experiencing the last few days. This is going to be raw and blunt. It may take a number of installments. I beg anyone who loves and respects me at all, to read and listen with an open heart.

I was what society refers to as an "early bloomer." At the age of 12, I was 5'3, 135lbs, my dress size was 12, and yes, I'll be frank, my bra size was a 34C. I was very thin. This wasn't extra weight. It was simply me. Not only was I very advanced in my development for the average 12 year old, but I also, thanks to my late summer birthday, was a year older than most of my classmates, putting me even further ahead of them. At the time, I was going to a very expensive college prep Christian school on the outskirts of Cincinnati. It wasn't the kind of place my parents could afford on their own, it was paid for by the money my grandfather left all his grandkids for their education.

Sixth grade there was hell. I was Autistic, but we didn't know it. High-functioning Autism was not nearly as well understood in the early-mid 90s as it is today. Despite a father who worked as a speech pathologist with special needs kids, including Autistic kids, it was just never on our radar until I was about 20 or so, and I didn't get a diagnosis until I was 32. Between being years ahead of average in my development, and being Autistic and therefore having next to zero social skills, or ability to deal with bad social situations, I was a magnet for the most brutal of bullying, sexual harassment, and assault from my classmates.

At first, it was just brutal bullying and teasing. Cracks about being poor, about being dumb, about no one ever liking me. Cracks about how excited I got at school spirit rallies. About how I believed people when they said they wanted to be friends with me. They broke into my locker so many times, leaving nasty messages, and even vandalizing my belongings, I couldn't keep up with them in requests to the school office for new locker combinations.

But then, in about November of that year (1995), the bullying went beyond that. I even remember exactly where I was when it started. I was at the front of Mrs. Slemmons's English class, and we were playing some sort of educational game, I don't remember what. My INTJ personality type doesn't make me overly-excitable, that's my Autism. Autism is neurological in nature. Those of us with it have a very different neurological map, and "normal" things affect us differently. It's easy for us to get overstimulated, or simply...more stimulated than other people about things, hence the over-excitement during games, competitions, etc. This game was no exception to that. My team was winning, and I was trying to get my classmates to make the right guesses before the clock ran out. I was laughing, and bouncing up and down on my toes. As you can imagine, with anyone of my chest size, things don't stay still when I'm bouncing. I remember exactly which boy started smirking, and said, "Jiggle, jiggle." His cousin, sitting next to him, smirked and started saying the same thing. For a second, I wasn't sure what was going on, but then, it hit me: They were mocking me for the size of my chest.

I remember feeling odd about it after it happened, but I didn't know why. This felt different from the other bullying. Before then, I hadn't really ever thought twice about my body and early development. I was blissfully ignorant. But after that, I became incredibly self-conscious. And what I did not know, was that this wasn't a one-time thing. It was going to continue throughout the rest of the year. And not only was it going to continue, it was going to get far, far worse. By the end of that school year, I would hit a new low. I would have developed PTSD for the THIRD time (the first two events being when I was 3, and when I was 6). And my usually healthy self-esteem would be nowhere to be found...for the next 18 years.

This is just the beginning. I beg of you to please keep reading over the next several days. My next one is going to be incredibly unpleasant to read, but please, read it. Try to understand. This all ties into the events of the last few days, and I desperately need my friends and family who voted for Trump to understand where I'm coming from, and why I'm having a hard time dealing with it.

Where I'm Going

It has been far too long since I have written anything here. I've had dozens of posts swirling around in my head, and I hope I will get them down here soon. But I've also been processing a lot of thoughts, a lot of feelings, and a lot of things in life. Just more steps in my journey forward. I started this blog a year ago, and while I'm light years ahead of where I was then, I'm still not in nearly a healthy enough state of mind to handle going back and reading what I wrote then. It was too raw. It brings back too much, even just thinking about it. Maybe someday, maybe never.

Tonight, I started packing for my move down south. On December 3rd, I'm moving from the north side of Denver, to Lone Tree, south of the city. It's actually a very wealthy part of town. To put it in Cincinnati terms, I'm basically moving to Indian Hills. By Lone Tree standards, I'm exceedingly poor, but no matter. I have enough to cover my needs, and sometimes, a little extra. It's far more than I have had for the vast majority of my life. 

When I began my moving process, I was moving because right now, I spend 20 or so hours in the car each week. I spend a lot in gas and tolls. I don't live near work, and I don't live near Andy. Fortunately for me, Level 3 has an office in Lone Tree, fewer than 10 minutes from Andy's house. I was fortunate enough to find an apartment in the building right next door to Level 3. I don't even walk across a parking lot to get there. There's a little grassy embankment, and I'm there. I'm guessing it'll take me less time to get from my front door to my new desk than it currently takes me to get from the parking garage to my desk every day. Not only that, but instead of using a tank or more of gas per week, I can use about one per month. And pretty much never pay tolls. The apartment building I chose is brand new and very modern in decor. It's basically my dream apartment. Yes, I'm spending in rent literally all the money I'm saving by not driving so much, but it's totally worth it. Plus, the year round heated pool is going to be amazing for my joints this winter. I'll be close to Andy, close to Violet (who is SO BIG!), close to a lot of things. I'll save hours in driving time each week, and especially when living with chronic pain and illness, on top of Autism, time is energy. 

All of that alone, seemed like the reasons I was moving. But a few weeks ago, I realized something that struck me again tonight, while packing some things up in my kitchen: I moved to my current apartment to survive. I'm moving to my new one to be happy. 

When I moved here, I was barely holding on to life and sanity by a thread. I had already spent a week in the hospital, and had only narrowly avoided going back a couple months after. Cape had become entirely toxic to me, and staying there was simply not an option. And so I packed up my five years of life in Cape, selling as much as I could to get rid of all my grad school cheap stuff, to make my move easy, and force me into saving money to buy good adult furniture in Denver. 

Packing was brutally painful. Nothing inside of me wanted anything to do with any part of the situation I was in. I didn't want to be moving. I didn't want to be leaving Cape and SEMO. I didn't want to leave him and our relationship behind. I didn't want to leave and start all over in a completely new city, and state. But moving to Denver was my only option if I was going to survive. And as I remember writing about a year ago here, I didn't seem to have an option but to survive. I was stuck living. I remember quoting Jurassic Park, saying, "Life finds a way." And for me, it did. It was the most painful thing I had ever experienced in my life. But life wasn't going anywhere, so I had to leave. And the only place that didn't make me want to cry to think about moving there was Denver. So I came. 

Moving to Denver was the best thing I had ever done. I began to make a life for myself here. My place wasn't bad, and I started to decorate it to my liking. But I still spent so many nights here in this apartment, sobbing for him. Grieving the life I thought I was going to have. The life that was promised me over and over. Dreaming that he was knocking on my door, only to wake up to reality. I was doing much better, and I was forcing myself to move forward, but it was still brutal. It was ugly. It was excruciating. 

Then came Andy. And he helped make it better. No, he didn't take the pain away. He couldn't. But he did help parts of it heal. I'm still overwhelmed by grief at times, and pain. Anger still takes my breath away at times, and I am still beyond confused, and even after 16 months, I'm still in a degree of shock. No, I don't wish him back. Not at all. I know he was too much of a coward to ever be able to make life with me work. And I don't even really know if he loved me. I don't think I'll ever stop questioning that. But even with Andy in the picture, my apartment was still a little shrouded by the reason for moving. I loved my apartment in Cape, this one is just okay. The one in Lone Tree is better. 

There are so many things that make my new place infinitely better than the one I'm in. This apartment played a role. An absolutely vital role. But it's time to move on. I moved here to survive, and survive I did. Now it's time to thrive. And that's exactly why I'm moving. I can't really fully do that while I'm here. But soon, I'll be in my new place, in my new part of town, without driving enough to be a part-time job. And instead of pain while I pack, I feel excitement. Like this time last year, I can't wait to move. But unlike last year, it's not because I can't bear to be where I am. It's because I can't wait to be where I'm going. And that, dear readers, makes all the difference in the world. 

On Pumpkin Spice Lattes

I write this with an empty PSL cup on my desk beside me. It's only September 19th, and I've already lost count of the PSLs I have consumed. On September 2nd, I got my first PSL of the season. I think I was halfway through before I realized that was my first PSL in 2 years. Last year, I couldn't do it. I couldn't handle a PSL, or making my yearly pumpkin and spiced fall things.

Of course, last year, I was in hell about this time. Making it even worse was the fact that the ex and I had started eagerly anticipating Fall and PSLs and pumpkin spiced everything in about...May. We kept talking about all the things I would make, and all the PSLs we'd get at Starbucks, and how the first PSL of the season should always be a day of celebration. We talked about picking apples and pumpkins, and doing all things Fall related. And then when Fall came, breathing was almost too much. Given my state of mental health last fall, and all the things I was dealing with, even on top of the breakup, it's no wonder that I couldn't manage a PSL. And that Fall itself was almost too much for me.

For a while, I kinda wondered if I would get that back. If I'd be able to fully enjoy PSLs again. Or if they'd always be sad to me. There are things that, even now, nearly 15 months out, and 7 months in to a new and awesome relationship, I still really can't deal with. Guardians of the Galaxy and Goonies are both kinda ruined, and I may never get either of those back. There are a couple songs I doubt I'll ever fully enjoy again. I'm getting to the place where Gremlins and Back to the Future and The Big Bang Theory and various other things are no longer huge, painful reminders. They carry with them mild to moderate pangs, but they're not the knife in the gut they used to be.

For this reason, I was really happy to realize, and to continually see, over the last 18 days, that a PSL is...a PSL to me. It's not a painful reminder. It's not even a very mildly uncomfortable reminder. It may seem petty that I place so much significance on enjoying a PSL. But really, it's a huge thing. Last year, I couldn't even deal with the thought of drinking one. It was far too painful. But this year, I've come a really long way. I've gotten to where I can order one and experience no more than a "Huh. Nope, nothing. This is really good."

And you know what? That's part of living a successful and fulfilling life. Recognizing that every victory, no matter how small it may seem, is, indeed, a victory.  I think a lot of times, we sell ourselves short. We minimize the victories and milestones. We make victories insignificant, and discount the milestones. Every victory comes from a battle that could have been lost, but wasn't. Every milestone comes from a place that could never have been reached, but was. Plus, if you ask me, anything that involves drinking a PSL is a huge win.

I don't usually do this, but today, I'm going to end with a challenge to everyone reading this. What is a victory, a milestone, or an accomplishment that you have achieved, but have been downplaying? What is something good in your life that you've been minimizing, telling yourself it's not a big deal? STOP! Stop denying that whatever it is, isn't a big deal, and appreciate everything that got you through that victory or milestone or achievement. It's when we're able to fully appreciate the things that may seem small, that life suddenly becomes so much better. 

7 Months, 1 Day

I'm not gonna lie. I'm a little unsettled today. A little on edge. A little jittery. Yesterday, Andy and I reached the 7 month mark in our relationship. We spent part of the day together, and it was great. But then he left (to go watch the Broncos beat the Colts...), and I started feeling less great.

We all know by now that the ex left me incredibly scarred and damaged. Some of that will continue to heal. Some of it never will. But that's part of life. I still fight the mental demons on that issue on a daily basis. Some days are worse than others. Some are horrible. Some are quite good. Today...today is rough.

Why?
Well, I'll tell you.

It was the day after the 7 month mark that the ex came over during his lunch break and broke up with me, leaving me completely shocked and devastated.

I'm someone who makes significant connections between, well, nearly everything. Connections and associations are basically how I process the world and all information that goes through my brain. Usually, it helps. Sometimes, it hurts. This time, it's brutal. I have something called synesthesia. For most synesthetes, everything has a color, but there are other types. For me, I have spatial sequence and spatio-temporal synesthesia. What does this mean? Well, basically, time is far more concrete to me than to most people. Perhaps that's why I'm a historian. But that's another thought for another time. Birthdays, events, dates, years, etc., all have a fixed place in my mind. I'm always highly aware of duration, and of one thing's duration in comparison to other similar things in my life. I could explain more, but for one thing, that would take too much time, and for another, it would probably freak some of you out. Usually, it's a blessing, as it helps give me an unusually good memory. Sometimes, it's a curse. But it's one reason that I always know exactly how old all of my family members are, how long my brother has been gone, how I know when my grandparents died, how I know how long my parents have been married, how long it's been since I graduated from high school, college, grad school...how long since we joined ATI, and how long since I got out. Everything significant has a fixed place in my head.

So for me, the day after the seven month mark has me on high alert. I've been dreading it, as I could see it getting closer. I have repeatedly told myself it doesn't matter, but everything in my head and my gut, and everything about how I process information has screamed otherwise. Every part of me wants to brace for impact, and possibly, sleep through the day. But I have a job, so I'm here at work, hoping the day flies by, and telling myself to chill. Of course, saying it is way easier than actually doing it.

Today is just one of those days I have to power through. It's just one of those days I have to deal with the pit in my stomach, and tell myself that no matter what my mind, body, and emotions are screaming at me, things really are good between us. Andy isn't going to just suddenly be like, "So um...I can't do this..." I'm going to leave work today and meet him and the kitties at his place. We're going to have dinner, play with the kitties, and watch a movie, or perhaps Gilmore Girls. We'll talk about our days, and the day will end, and we'll still be together.

So for today, I'll just have to deal. I'll do my job, and I'll grade exams for my online class, and I'll write a few blog posts, and I'll read on in  The Girl on the Train (guys, it's as amazing as they say...and leaps and bounds better than Gone Girl, which many are comparing it with), and I'll make it through, like I always do. I'm okay. I don't feel okay, but I am. And at the end of the day, being okay is far more important than feeling okay. The being is here. The feeling will come. 

On Kittens and Puppies

As many of you know by now, two weeks ago, I got a kitten, Violet. She's all black, teeny-tiny, and (mostly) adorable. When I got her, she was just barely 2lbs, and 8 weeks old. Now, she's two weeks older, and definitely bigger, but still in the 2lb range. The humane society information we got with her says she was found alone under a porch. Which is just really sad, especially for a kitten who was only a few weeks old and could not fend for herself! We're guessing she was the kitten of a feral or outdoor cat, and since she's SO tiny, was probably the runt, and rejected by the mother. I'm glad someone found her and brought her to the humane society, though, so that we could adopt her and love her!

Violet (also known lovingly as Jingle Butt, cause she has a bell on her collar and can be a little bit of a butt at times) is my cat, but she's living with Andy, and his 14 year old Maine Coon, Smokey. So she's really our cat. We got her together. I had told Andy about her, and said I was thinking about getting her, but then decided I just couldn't afford the pet deposit and all the stuff I needed for her right now. So I decided not to get her. But the next day, Andy said we should get her, and he would keep her with Smokey, and we could buy all the stuff together. I went for it, and my cousin Valerie, who had been fostering Violet for the humane society in Boulder, put her on hold for us.

We got the call that Violet had been spayed, and was ready for us to pick her up, on a Monday, and I made plans to get her the next day. But that night, I started getting scared. I didn't have a panic attack, but I did spend a decent portion of the evening crying and dealing with unpleasant memories.

Last summer, I talked to my ex about getting a puppy (before he was my ex, of course), as a way to help deal with the depression brought about by the Duggar scandals, and exacerbated by my temporary joblessness. We had always planned on each getting a puppy after we got married, but I felt like I needed one sooner. He thought it was a good idea, so I rescued little Rue. She was a lab mixed with multiple other breeds, and was full of fleas and ticks and worms when I got her. The people who I got her from had a farm and tons of dogs that they didn't spay, neuter, or keep away from each other, and they all stayed outside. She still has a scar on her leg from being kept outside without much care.

I got her, and immediately, she helped with my depression. When I woke up the day the ex broke up with me, I had realized that I really hadn't felt very depressed in the three days I'd had her. She was adorable, and got me out of bed in the morning, and gave me something to do. Well, the ex came over during his lunch break that day and broke up with me. As I have said in other places, no one- not even his best friends- saw that ever happening. I was completely blindsided. I tried to keep Rue, but at the end of the day, with all of my health issues, I couldn't keep her by myself. It's why I had never gotten a puppy in my 10 years of living alone. If I had known he was thinking about breaking up with me (which he was, when he told me getting her was a good idea), I never would have gotten her. After three weeks, I had to give her up. I left her with a friend in Colorado (who has since lost Rue to a breakup as well), and leaving her broke my heart. It was awful. And I still want my damn dog back all the time.

Things are different with Andy. Everyone sees it. But getting a kitten to keep at his house scared the crap out of me. I was so afraid he was going to break up with me, and I was going to lose another pet. That night, I really and truly wanted to back out and decide not to get her. But I knew the only thing making me want to do that was fear. So I made myself go to bed, and managed to sleep better than I thought I would.

The next day, I headed to Boulder after work, and picked up Violet. She is so precious. Usually, anyway. She loves pouncing, jumping, running, ambushing poor Smokey, and sleeping on faces or throats. Yes, ON the face. Foreheads and cheeks seem like ideal beds to her. And so do throats, though I find that one somewhat panic inducing. I'm so glad I decided to get her, despite the fear. She can be a little demanding, she loves to play with a playmate, rather than alone.When Smokey is done with her, she decides to try and get one of us to play with her. Heaven forbid we may be busy! She definitely attached to me immediately. Andy says she looks for me when I'm not there.

Sometimes, I still get scared I'll lose her. That something will happen with Andy and me, and I'll lose my cat in the process. But some things are out of my hands. I can't control everything. Maybe I'll lose her, but I probably won't. I can't let fear keep me from living my life. That's the reason I have this blog in the first place.