Afraid to be Human
This story goes all the way back to 2015, a formative year for my 24 year old self. After exiting my first relationship where love and desire grew—albeit in their weedy garden, I found myself spiraling.
Alone. Isolated. Filled with self-hate and anger, I descended deep into a pit wallowed by self-pity. In an attempt for connection, to not feel the universe press upon the loneliness I felt inside I found myself in a shelter.
I wanted a pet, something living that I chose and would eventually choose me. Responsibly, that meant adopting a cat; I had no experience with cats. I’d only really been around dogs. Growing up family friends had barn cats— feral fur-balls with pointing claws like needles. That was my experience with cats, not much. I remember visiting each room of the shelter, not one cat seemed right. With one room left to go I felt my stomach turn with the usual feeling of sadness.
Entering the room, there were a few cats. And in a little cupboard this black cat with beautiful eyes peaked his head out and stared out me. I walked over to him and he reached out for me. Reaching into his cupboard I picked him up. He fell into my chest and purred, rubbing the top of his head on my chin. I wanted to cry, but at that time I didn’t know how to allow sadness to flow through me: I just knew it hurt and I hated the feeling.
The shelter had given this particular cat the name Sherlock. Despite Sherlock Holmes being one of my favorites book series growing up, I didn’t believe in naming pets like this. So, in a futile act, I tried to changed his name. He was having none of it, he only responded to Sherlock. The name stuck.
Even with the highlight of adopting Sherlock, I was not well. There were feelings I had inside, and I did not know how to identify them. How could I express my emotions if I had no language for them? I knew I was angry, I’d been angry for the entirety of my life on this earth. I knew I was lonely, that too was a feeling I was familiar with and had no language to understand. They fed off each other. Consumed me. And I hated myself. Hated the world. Hated living.
Yet, this little bundle of fur who would follow me all over my 800 square foot town home didn’t seem to care about any of that. He’d steal my French fries and jump on the counter any time I cooked. Sherlock would curl up on my feet in the winter. Climb on my chest and night and fall asleep purring so loudly it was hard to think. If I felt wanted, needed even, I still did not have the language.
Three months after adopting Sherlock I fell the deepest into my depression.
Which, I pause this tale to warn if you face depression it is only something you can rise out of after you come to terms with your own self: no amount of outward things will help. Unless, the depression is a matter of brain function: in which case, medicine will help you. For me, my depression was not brain function. For some, it can be both: know this, you are not alone. There are people who can help. People who want to be there for you and to see you successful, you just have to reach out. It is healthy to ask for help. It is courageous to ask for help. It is brave to take care of yourself.
Some poems I have written describe reaching the bottom of hell; or a well of self-pity. Those are metaphors I use to describe my depression at it’s lowest: the point in my life where I attempted suicide. And while I lay on the floor in physical and emotional pain, Sherlock was there. Watching over me, bopping me on the head with his paw, booping my forehead with his nose, nipping at my feet. Letting me know that I must survive the night. He wasn’t going to leave my side.
Of the the memories from July of 2015, I remember most often Sherlock’s presence. His attentiveness to my struggle and his unwillingness to leave me alone. The persistent reminders, only a cat can give: I’m here and I don’t want you leave. Even as I write this, tears well in my eyes.
A week ago, a mass was found in Sherlock’s stomach. And I was faced with one choice: let him go peacefully into the void with love. In his final moments, when the anesthesia was at its highest he placed his paws on my arm in the way he’d always done and rested his head on my arm as he had so many times before. The tears fell freely, and this time I had words to describe my feelings and emotions: sadness; grief; sorrow; unhappiness. I didn’t feel despair, or guilt, or lonely. I felt love and joy for the moments we had, and gratefulness that I had the opportunity to be present for Sherlock’s last moments. If anyone really actually knew me, and my journey through life, they’d understand just how momentous and significant those last moments with Sherlock were.
Death is life. Sherlock and I were always going to reach this point. I knew one day I might have to make a difficult choice. Ten years ago I could have never made that choice, I would have frozen and that cowardice would have made me angry. The anger would have turned to self hate. These feelings rebounding until I hurt myself in frustration.
Sherlock was with me for ten years, and he always alerted me to when I was feeling sad, or angry. Often well before I had identified the feelings. It was through his love and kindness, his undying loyalty that I began to learn the language which freed me from self hate. And, as if the culmination of his time with me: I put all that together in the four hours from discovering he was too ill to continue on with life and his final breath to be present. In those hours, I felt the full spectrum of my humanity and I was not afraid to be human.
Afraid to be Human
I lay upon the ground, the pain in my stomach a mirror of the pain in my heart:
Eyes drooping, if only I could sleep then I would not wake:
And the pain would be gone.
But love would not allow those eyes to fall, not for long:
A bop with the paw;
A boop with the nose;
A nip at the toes.
I would feel the pain all night long, never getting my final sleep.
Not seeing the other side.
And in the morning, I would have to reckon with my choice.
Face the consequence of actions which led me to this floor.
A bop with the paw;
A boop with the nose;
A nip at the toes.
A kindness which made me question why I was afraid to be human:
Sent me down a path to find a purpose in this life.
A reason to live beyond the expectation of those around.
A path whose destination I chose.
A bop with the paw;
A boop with the nose;
A nip at the toes.
Unconditional love all through that night:
Which freed me from the cage of my my own making,
Unshackled me from the chains of my anger.
Opened my eyes to the beauty of humanity:
A bop with the paw;
A boop with the nose;
A nip at the toes.
Taught me to be resolute with my humanity.
