Death of the Megster

[carose59]

I'm feeling rather funny and I don't know what I
am —

BUT
Round about
And round about
And round about I go —
All round the table,
The table in the nursery —*


So, I think I’m manic.

I know, you’d expect depressed. But I remember my father had breakdowns (which is what we called them then) when each of my grandparents died. (Mind you, this was my mother’s parents. There was no observable difference when his own parents died.)

So, I’m cleaning the house and doing backed up laundry. Some of this is because I can--always ride the manic wave as far as you can. But most of it is in preparation for a new kitten.

Or cat. I don’t know.

I’ve known since Megster’s unfortunate incarceration four years ago that I can’t live catless. (It was exactly four years ago today.)

Basically, I can’t live without physical affection. My two mental health necessities are a cat and a trike.

Right now I’m cleaning my room, which is where the dirty laundry lives. I’ve done a load today, and I did three on Sunday.

I’m going to have to give up making my anarchist’s kaleidoscopes. Meg was an anomalous boy; he had no interest in the sparkly things I was playing with. I can’t expect that from Mr. X.

(I’m not naming him Mr. X. I’m probably naming him Edgar Box, which is what I should have named Meg because Patrick found him in a box on his front porch. The box was already there; Meg appropriated it. [Edgar Box is the nom de plume Gore Vidal used to write some mysteries.])

I’m thinking about an orange-flavored boy, because I’ve heard they’re very affectionate.


Except for the anticipation, I’m feeling just exactly how I felt after Pat died, only without all the loose ends that needed tying up. I’m alone in the same way; I’m adjusting in the same way. Every moment is a “last time I did this, Meg was still alive,” moment. I’m rebuilding myself moment by moment, unwillingly letting go of the past to survive the now.

I miss him so much, but I’m also so relaxed because I don’t have to get up and touch his food before I go to the bathroom (he’d have food; I just had to touch it before he could eat it) or be prepared to guard my food. Monday I had catfish all by myself, and it was a sad relief.

And I feel unmoored, untethered, like I could float away and nobody would notice. There’s no-one to tell that I’m going out but I’ll be back soon. There’s nobody to tell I’m going to bed, or that I’m getting up. I’m living moments uncared about, which feels wrong. There is nothing to do with the playfulness that wells up in me, no-one to say silly things to, or rewrite songs for.

I do want a cat that will let me sing. Meg hated it when I sang, even if I was singing about him.

Hello, my baby, hello, my honey, hello, my ragtime cat.
Send me a kiss by wire,
Kitty, my heart’s on fire.
Though you refuse me, kitty, can’t lose me—
You’ll never be alone,
So, kitty, telephone and tell me I’m your own.


My hands feel weird.

Am I the only one who gets emotional upheaval in their hands and arms, and sometimes feet? I also feel profound pleasure there. Maybe it’s a circulatory thing. Maybe my mind can’t handle all of the emotion, and so outsources it. After all, the words come through my fingers.

My brain keeps trying to help with my grief by giving me moments of pure relaxation. My mind and heart hurt, but my body feels wonderful.

It’s really odd.


*“Busy,” A. A. Milne