I had a cat a few years back that had been severely abused as a kitten. He was from a local "animal mill" and when I called to inquire about finding a Siamese cat, she explained that she had two left. She explained that one of the cats was inherently evil and was going to be going to "Kitty Hell" within the next few days. I explained that my cat needed another cat and I didn't particularly care what this cat's temperament was like--I would take that one.
When I arrived at her establishment, she directed me to the garage that the cats were kept in. The cage she led me to had two male Siamese cats in it, both nearly a year old. One was gentle and the other was the hell cat she referred to. Several times she asked me if I didn't want to just buy the nice one, I explained that no, I would take Hell Cat.
He hunkered down in whatever corner of the cage was farthest from her--his eyes never leaving her. The closer any part of her got to him, the more he growled, hissed, spat and swatted. He truly did look evil and frightening. Eventually, she got a large metal fishing net and explained that one time he managed to get out in the house and she was unable to catch him until using the net. As her attempts progressed, he became even more fierce. I noticed that as he backed up into corners, attempting to attack her, I was able to pet his fur through the bars of the cage without him becoming upset.
An hour later, he was in a cat carrier and heading to my house. I attempted to keep him in a small bathroom located off of my bedroom, with food and a litter box, until he became used to his surroundings. Over the next days, anytime I attempted to approach him or if he even thought I was coming near him, he would leap and throw himself at the walls to the point of leaving bloodstains behind. He became desperate to free himself from that room and tore a patch in the carpet at the edge of the bedroom and chewed, clawed, and fought with the accordion-style door until he had claimed the bedroom, as well.
For several days, he refused to move from the floor air vent and urinated where he was sitting. Being that he was an unneutered male, the smell was overwhelming. Attempts to recapture him and return him to the bathroom led to him hiding under my dresser. I was at a loss. Despite years of ferret rescue and dealing with other unwanted, aggressive animals, this cat was still beyond me.
Since he was completely unsocialized and viewed humans as the source of his misery, I decided to begin by letting him watch interactions between my other cat and myself. I would sit on the floor near the dresser and pet my cat, Mashed Potato and talk softly to both of them. Eyes would peek out from the tiny space he was daily contorting himself into. Other times, I would use a feather wand and let him watch Mashed Potato and I play. Eventually, mornings would find the feather wand upon the floor as he had attempted to play with it through the night.
We lived like this for several months. He would watch Mashed Potato and I interact. We would see eyes appear from under the dresser. He seemed to be a hopeless case. As time passed, he became more willing to interact with Mashed Potato and she became more tolerant of him, also. One night, he slept with her on my bed and I was able to see the cat now living with us. Sleeping at the foot of my bed eventually led to him becoming more curious about me--the human that the other cat doted upon...
Finally one morning, he let me touch him; while it was brief and he would only let me touch him while I was laying down and trapped under blankets, it was a start. Touching led to petting, petting led to him eventually reaching a point in which he would rub his face upon mine each morning--but I still couldn't touch him or get near him unless it was in bed and I was laying down. He did eventually become a lap cat, but he never really became a normal cat. He often relied upon Mashed Potato and followed her around for safety. Trips to the vet were horrible because he would still become terrified when he would see the cat carrier or if humans, including me, attempted to catch him. Twice, he bit well-meaning friends of mine; one of the bites leading to medical expenses and complications for my friend.
We lived like this for a little over four years, until I had to have him put down due to health complications. I still think of Anubis often and find myself saddened because it seems that he should still be here. But then I remember, also--we granted him four years of life that he almost missed because of one cruel woman that had deemed him evil. Sometimes the damages done during youth carry over and make it nearly impossible for a "normal" life, with "normal" loving attachments. While Anubis clearly wanted love, craved human contact and wanted to free his playful nature; his fear and past experiences with humans had stunted his ability to simply live, be comfortable and to relax.
As a
Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) survivor, I understand these fears and self-imposed restrictions upon freedom and happiness. Life has taught us to always look over our shoulder. It has taught us that life is fraught with tragedy and that another one is always waiting around the next bend. Constantly alert, hypervigilant, and often missing the happiness in life due to these fears is part of PTSD.
But beyond being a PTS survivor, I can relate on an even deeper level. When we never develop secure bonds in youth, when we are taught that humans hurt us; when rejection is pushed upon us from all sides and the ones that "love" us are the ones that hurt us the most--attachments to others often never truly develop. Instead of developing normal human attachments, we withdraw into ourselves, we isolate, depression festers, and confusion and fear regarding the world around us become a reality in which normal, daily survival is a challenge.
I have often wondered if I (and perhaps also my brothers) am one of those rare humans that is afflicted with
Reactive Attachment Disorder (R.A.D.). The naked human eye viewing me now, in most situations, would laugh and suggest psychosomatic issues or hypochondriasis. Adults from my youth would likely stop, tilt their head, massage their chin and the lightbulb would go off. Those that have attempted long-term, romantic relationships with me may also pause and nod their heads.
As a youth, I was consistently pushed away and rejected--by my peers, family, and eventually teachers. I remember in kindergarten, on the last day of school our teacher made us line up and do something special as our way of saying goodbye to her. For me, this was a horribly frightening exercise to begin with, being placed on display in front of my peers (I was also horribly shy to the point of being backwards). The girl in front of me offered our teacher a hug, which was enthusiastically returned by the teacher. When I reached out to her, to do the same, she pushed me away like a bag of rotting meat. So I did as most of my other peers had done and signed "I love you" in American Sign Language and returned to my seat. Yet my embarrassment, feelings of hurt, puzzlement and rejection never left me. If it were an isolated event, not a repeated pattern of youth, perhaps the scar would have been avoided.
Through my youth and teenage years, I received similar treatment from my grandmother and always felt looked down upon by my father's side of the family. Which, truly, was my only family since my mother grew up 2000 miles away; her mother died when I was ten-months old; she never saw her father after the age of fifteen and she had no siblings. My brothers and I had our mother and this paternal side that generally turned their nose up at us. Love and admiration seemed to be reserved for our cousins, while we watched on.
Our mother was bi-polar manic depressive, had lupus and many other health problems. Between her depression and chronic pain, she often spent days in bed and left us to our own devices. Her own mother had also been bipolar and she often relayed having been raised by a slew of different babysitters throughout the years and frequently coming home from elementary school to find her mother unresponsive and being forced to call ambulances to deal with the numerous suicide attempts. Her mother also had frequent men in and out of her life and as a single mother raising a child during the 1950's and 1960's, with her own significant mental health issues, my mother may not have had the best example of how to raise children.
My earliest childhood memories are of crying for what seemed like hours and being sure that I was home alone. As I began to walk, I would feed myself raw hot dogs and pickles because these were what I could obtain on my own. My youngest brother (there are ten years between us) recently related similar stories of remembering pushing chairs to the sink and then taking glasses of water into our mother as she laid in bed. My guess is that the middle brother and I were in school during these times.
I am the oldest and when my first brother was born, my mother often complained that he was difficult for her because he was significantly rougher with her when nursing and cried more than I did. She stated that it was probably best that I was born first since I was calmer and that had he been born first, she may have inadvertently killed him. She told me that she often grew frustrated when I would cry and that she would shake me out of frustration. I don't think she meant to hurt us, I think she just didn't have the coping skills or the strength to deal with raising children. I know she tried her best, but raising children is impossible when you are not even able to care for yourself.
By the time I was nine or ten, our family doctor told our mother that she was concerned that I may commit suicide. By then, I was so locked within myself that I would often just sit and stare at the walls. I lived in a fantasy world, within my mind, that also offered protection from the hostile environment that I faced within my home. School was no better as I was the frequent target of bullies and I had no friends. Attempts to reach out to my peers were not well received, and being extremely shy did not help matters. Recess was generally spent sitting, watching the other children play and eagerly waiting for it to be over. I hated school and I especially hated free-time when I was expected to interact. From kindergarten through my senior year, I always missed at least forty days of school per year. While my home life was no treat, it was generally quiet during the day. Our mom would be in her room or on the couch and I was free to play, read or sleep. Without a doubt, this was preferable to the hated place known as school.
There is much more to this story and there are also, of course, smatterings of sunlight through the clouds--however, for today, my inability to effectively bond with other humans was my focus. The reasons are beyond what I have shared here, for how can one adequately display a lifetime of angst? Not to mention, these are the bits that I am willing to share, the parts that I am willing to expose to you. Do we not all have darkness underneath that recoils at the thought of being viewed by human eyes?
The R.A.D. diagnosis... As I mentioned, there are many other factors that left scars and that fragmented me as a child. I think I have done exceeding well in my survival. Were this life to be viewed from beginning to end, as a movie, it would be unbelievable to most--a pathetic attempt at portraying reality to many. If karma is truth, then I am either dealing with 90% of the trials and wretched human experiences possible, in as short of a time as possible or I was a bad, bad person in past lives. I suppose most of us feel this way. I also know that reality is what we make it. I know that focusing on the positives leads to greater happiness. I know that focusing on the negatives leads to sorrow and self-fulfilling prophesies of failure. Yet this is my reality. I am also aware that without self-reflection, I am doomed to fail.
I run from intimacy beyond sex. Sex is easy. It is physical. It relieves tension. It is as close as I can generally come to showing love. I am generally caring and empathetic to the outside world--the world that allows me to heal them as long as my own walls aren't touched. My private life? I have been called cold and callous, more than once. It isn't that I don't want love. It isn't that I don't need human contact. It isn't that I don't crave laughter, happiness, or freedom. It is just that I have been taught differently. I wasn't raised to accept those feelings, emotions and "natural" human traits. I more closely resemble the cat raised in a cage with fleeting episodes of terrorization by the hands meant to protect and nurture me. I have learned that to survive I am alone and am better off left alone.
I realize that in order to heal others and to be a therapist myself, I need to heal the darkness within. I can not help when I, too, am breaking down. But in all honesty, my life-time experiences with therapists have been no better than with other humans. As a result, I have always internalized and sought the answers within myself. I, again, turn to the written word because sometimes putting it down on paper helps us to make sense of our internal struggles. I don't know how else to function.
I just want to quit running. I want to be able to accept love and not try to swat it away. I want to know how to share my world and let another in without fear of the destruction nearly always attached to love. But I am best at building walls and pushing others out. I don't know that I will ever be "normal." I don't believe that there truly is such a thing beyond a dictionary definition. I just know that I want to quit hurting and move forward. But yet, again, I find myself paralyzed...
