The only person I talk about in this blog who gets his real name used.....

In his golden eyes....

This is a (not very good) picture of our family pet napping in a box. He loves boxes. Boxes and coconut oil.

           He is the only member of my family who actually gets  his real name used online (Since he won't call the police or sue me). His name is Mew, or as my daughter calls him when he chews her headphone cable "mewcifer".

            He will eat basically anything but has an especial love for butter and coconut oil. Weird but he goes into some weird kind of 🐱bliss mode when we feed him a tiny dab. 

           I know most people with ptsd have support dogs but after a childhood full of my mother's inept handling of them, which included letting go of one (which had been fostered mere days beforehand. She knew nothing about this dog) right in front of my pet rabbit because it "wanted to say hello" (it tried to kill my pet rabbit right in front of me), I do not want a dog.

          I don't dislike dogs. With good ownership they make good pets. I've just had more dogs in my life than I would of liked already. I like cats.

          Mew(cifer) is an awesome support animal. He is trained. (Does tricks. Comes to his name immediately.walks to heel) and very tuned in to the emotional tone of not just me, but the whole house. I know I am being off or talking too loudly because he dislikes it and let's me know (by skirting a distance around me and giving me side eye) that he senses the ptsd angry feelings take a hold before I would realise by myself.  

           When I am getting really sad, he purrs and headbutts me until I snap out of it. He stays by my side every second that I am alone in the house because he senses my fear and he (in his head) is a big and dominant man cat who can take care of me. It comforts me hugely to have him sat right by my side.

           He is my (amazing) partners animal but he does double duty looking after me as well. 

 

            And he craps in an easy to clean plastic box. Doesn't need walkies. And doesn't roll in fox crap. But more than that, in his golden eyes I see myself as he sees me.

            By that I mean I gain more understanding of how normally (or not) I am acting. This is important because in the early stages of bipolar mania, or when I  am first becoming depressed, I may not realise I have subtle symptoms creeping in. His furry lordship is very sensitive to such things.

 

                Yay for cats! 

Me and my school pals!

When you don't have many childhood photos...

This is one of the few pictures I have left of my childhood. Many people have few photos. Maybe their dad or mum wasn't great at remembering to grab the camera, housefire, transit issues, water damage...

And all of those reasons would still be upsetting.

the reason I have very few however (this one was given to my by my friend

Anita) is because my mother cut me out of family photos with a paire of scissors and posted the evidence online with the caption "I like it better this way"

 

The way "I" would of liked it would of been if I had not listened to her horror stories about the horrific things that woukd happen to my brother if I ever breathed a word about "home".

obviously she realised she was abusive despite her current denials and accusations that I have an "active imagination" (currently I am reading lots of psychology on abuse and now know this to be a universal tactic of abusers) knows it still. Unless she really is as mentally ill as I think she is.

 

I would of liked it if those pictures had not been taken at all. 

 

I would of liked to have gone to boarding school and to live with my dad before I turned fourteen when  I finally escaped the hell that was the awful school I was in followed by endless crap at home.

 

Do I care that she trashed loads of photos? Not really. My memory works very well thankyou despite her bizzarre accusations. I don't need them.

 

At the end of the day for me, ending up with few photos of my childhood was just collateral damage in my desperate fight to escape her.