I Broke That Bond.
The first thing to disappear when I started drinking again was self-care.
I stopped brushing my teeth; I barely brushed my hair. I showered only sporadically. I barely ate. I stopped washing dishes – so I stopped using dishes. My “meals” were found at the 7-11 when I bought cigarettes, mostly Little Debbies snack cakes and fruit pies. I called the pies “produce” and felt proud when I could get one down.
I stopped washing myself, my hands, my clothes. Laundry piled in the corner, then fell onto the sofabed, which I no longer called a couch. I did not dust, let alone organize or reorganize my albums. I was lucky to put them away as I tossed one aside and started playing another. My decorations – toys and magazine photos – were ignored and subsequently devalued. I stopped emptying ashtrays. I no longer cleaned up dirt in my carpet and instead flicked cigarette ash with complete disregard for cleanliness.
Possibly the greatest calamity, though, was my complete disregard for the cat I loved most in the world.
Since leaving Larry, Kitty had gotten used to my constant care. I’d fed her religiously morning and night, making sure she had plenty of treats in between. I’d played with her when she wanted to play, and cuddled with her when she wanted to cuddle. We were bonded.
But I broke that bond when I started drinking again. Sometimes I forgot to feed Kitty until well after sundown, and then I realized I didn’t have any food for her. If I was lucky, I’d have some lunchmeat to toss in her direction. I stocked up at the grocery store but couldn’t seem to keep enough food in the house for her anymore.
Kitty couldn’t trust that I would care for her.
We didn’t cuddle; we didn’t play. If she purred, I don’t remember it. Blackouts were constant.
Kitty had no peace. I jumped on the sofabed, sprawled on the floor, puked in the sink. I threw empty beer cans at the wall, mercilessly terrifying my pet. She had nowhere to hide.
Kitty spent a lot of time on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. At first, I found it amazing that she was able to leap up there from the floor – it was a standard-sized fridge – but then I realized she seemed to be happy there.
But I think she just didn’t have anywhere else to go. My apartment had gone from a relatively pleasant place to be where sometimes the music was a bit too loud … to an unsafe, horrifying place for any living creature. It was mayhem.
Sometimes I would sit outside with Kitty, but then I’d forget her. I’d go back inside without her, or walk down to the bar, or hop in the car and drive away. I’d come back 10 hours later and find her racing to the door, soaking wet or freezing cold, always starving.
Kitty was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I basically just forgot about her.
I’d like to say that this improved, that finding her in the snow once was all it took, but that didn’t happen. When I didn’t take care of myself, I didn’t take care of Kitty, either.
And Kitty had no way to take care of herself.
Somehow my dear cat – the runt of her litter, and my only feline pet – lived to be 18 years old.
I like to think I made up for all the neglect by getting sober and treating her like a princess, but that behavior was still a long time away.
