Last time I felt this way, I became hyperfocused on a fictional tree.
Last time I felt this way, I was shaking in a cafe in Reykjavik.
Last time I felt this way, it was fear that rattled me.
Now, as tears stream down my face, I find myself hyperfocused on a dog I don’t own.
Now, I’m crying into a beer as the antics of Elizabeth Lemon and Jack Donaghy play on the television in front of me.
Now, I feel desperately lonely, despite those within arm’s reach who love me to pieces.
To pieces, I tell you.
We’re fast approaching the one-year anniversary of the death of my favorite creature, the cat sometimes known as Babydoll. I miss her terribly, because she was more than a cat: she was my comfort, my home in a calico-coated soul.
I have my Beastie, and I love him. But he is not mine in the way Babydoll was mine. And it makes all the difference in the world.
For those who aren’t familiar with cats, this is like having your nephew come to visit: you care for him, you know that to some extent he cares for you. But it isn’t the same as your own child.
When I lost her, I lost a part of me.
I’m in the process of qualifying for an emotional support animal, which would enable me to have a dog weighing over 30 pounds in my apartment, as well as several other benefits (anxiety attacks during grocery shopping wouldn’t be a problem, for example). But it’s a long process which, for me, involves some paperwork and waiting.
So, wait I will.
But forgive me if I cry once in a while.