Life and Love

From the Box to the Basket

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

Today marks three years since Edgar Allan Poe strutted out of Princeton’s Meow and into our lives, and, let’s be honest, took over the place. Three years of “good, good boy time,” midnight zoomies followed by the 3 a.m. delivery of a wet mouse toy to my chest or head, and a perfectly curated collection of stolen tampons, chapsticks, hair ties, mouse toys, and other bits and bobs he has deemed worthy of play, all artfully scattered around the house and tucked under the couch.

Poe started life as a stray in Laurinburg, NC. A woman took him in and even documented where and when she found him. Unfortunately, like so many in our society, she struggled with mental health challenges, and her desire to help stray animals turned into a devastating hoarding situation.

Three years ago, authorities seized the animals in her home, over 50 cats kept in cages stacked on top of each other. I’m told it was one of the worst situations they had ever seen. Poe spent the first two years of his life like that, caged in a garage, sitting on top of and under other cats.

He never saw the sun. He never ran after fuzzy mice, never had healthcare or regular meals. The only floor he knew was a wire grate. The only bed he knew was that same wire grate. Most of the cats they rescued could not be saved and had to be humanely euthanized. But Poe… Poe endured.

He was sent to Mac Tabby Café in NoDa, where they posted a bio of him on their Facebook page. They called him Nick Barkley. I don’t know why, I imagine it must be hard naming the hundreds of animals that come through their doors. But something in that image, that story, and those yellow eyes hooked me.

At the time, I had two cats at home: Stella Sugaree Garcia Blue and Dan the Adventure Cat Rooney. You might remember them from this story. Still, I had been quietly searching for my next true love, Stu Two if you will, and something in that gaze told me I had found him.

Maybe it was his coloring, all white with a few black spots and a black tail, a Stuesque remix with black where the orange had been. But I think it was more than that. In that photo, I saw a cat, call me crazy if you want, who was a fighter, a survivor. He wasn’t hiding or cowering in some corner. He was bold, upright, ready for the next episode, ready to tackle whatever life threw at him next. And I knew, whatever that was, I wanted to be there for it.

It turns out that, like most things in my life, it came with unexpected injuries. Three days after being removed from a cage and set free in a cat café, Poe (née Nick Barkley) jumped off a table and broke his leg.

They reached out to let me know I couldn’t come see him and that he would be in traction and unavailable for at least two months while he healed. It hurt, but I wasn’t deterred. I kept tabs on him as they moved him to Princeton’s Meow, a wonderful cat rescue in my hometown, while he recovered.

The only downside was that he was now back in a cage with a casted leg. His first taste of freedom had been short-lived. We visited him a few times at Princeton’s and got to love on him while he sat there, little leg in a cast, in a crate. He was so receptive to the attention, purring nonstop and rubbing his head against our hands, always asking for more.

Finally, after almost seven weeks of waiting, I got the email I had been hoping for: Nick was ready to be adopted. The message came on July 31, but we were going out of town that week, so he had to wait until August 8 for us to officially bring him home.

I set up the appointment and planned to pick him up at Princeton’s after my dentist appointment that day. We prepared the bedroom for his arrival, knowing we’d need to keep him quarantined and do a slow introduction to Rooney and Stella. Then we started counting the days.

The day I was bringing him home, I went to work with my cat carrier in the back seat. I had a dentist appointment around four to get a filling replaced, but that wasn’t going to stop me from getting my boy.

I pulled into the lot at Princeton’s and, as I was putting my car in park, a face popped up in the window.

It was Nick Barkley. It was like he had heard my car and somehow knew it was his ride to a new life and freedom. They were busy that evening with intakes and let me sit in the room he was in while they finished their work.

I waited to complete the paperwork and pay the adoption fee to take him home. There were about ten cats in that room. All of them came over, wanting pets and to play. But not Nick. He walked into the cat carrier, despite spending two years in one, and laid down. It was like he knew, this is my mom.

He came to us a little unsure, a little aloof, like he wasn’t quite convinced we were worthy of his time. We kept him in the master bedroom behind a closed door so we could ease all three cats into the transition slowly.

After about a day, he was no longer thrilled with his confinement. That night, when I used my leg to block him from escaping as I shut the door, he jumped up and nipped me on the wrist. I was startled. I remember gasping and feeling the hot sting of tears in my eyes. I’d never been bitten by a cat that wasn’t playing.

Ten minutes later, I tripped over him getting into bed and he jumped up and bit my leg. That really sent me spiraling. I was upset and unsure. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake, but I was afraid I had adopted a cat that wouldn’t be able to be socialized.

I reached out to Princeton’s, curious about his background and whether they had ever had issues with him. I assured them I wasn’t returning him, that we would stick it out, but I needed advice. They told me he had never displayed any aggression and that they were as surprised as I was.

In the end, I decided it wasn’t aggression. He was advocating for himself in the way he knew how. He wasn’t being mean, he didn’t break the skin, it didn’t even hurt, well, just my pride. It was his way of letting me know, “I’m here, I’m unhappy, and yes, a bit scared.” It was the first and last time it ever happened.

Naming him proved to be about as difficult as it was to name Rooney. I knew we didn’t want to call him Nick. My cousin is Nick, and I didn’t want a cat sharing the name of my favorite male cousin.

He was almost all white, so we called him Spooky for a bit, mostly because T found his bright yellow eyes a little off-putting. We called him Possum because my sister thought he looked like one, and to be fair, he kind of does. We called him Monkey because he reminded my BFF Morgan of Marcel from Friends, and again, he kind of does.

But none of those felt right. About two weeks into our life together, I was curating an ELA lesson on poetry and prose and I came across a picture of Edgar Allan Poe. Maybe you don’t see it, but we did. He has that same stare. That same “my mom cuts my hair” look. The expression, the eyes, even that slightly serious “I’ve seen things” energy.

And it was settled. Nick Barkley became Edgar Allan Poe. Poe, PoePoe, Poebert, for short.

I wish I could say that introducing him to the girls was smooth sailing, but it wasn’t. Even now, I’m pretty sure Rooney still hates him, and maybe us just a little, for bringing him into what had been a pretty normal and peaceful existence.

He and Stella get along well enough; they’ll play together, but she’s his age and can keep up with him. Rooney, on the other hand, has taken a different approach. They’ve settled into a relationship built mostly on mutual avoidance, with the occasional moment when he decides to stalk her and she promptly kicks his ass. Honestly, I think he’s more afraid of her than she is of him. He knows she isn’t to be trifled with.

Then there was the litter situation. We had a carefully curated system that worked beautifully with pellets in every box, no smell, easy cleanup. Poe refused to use them. His protest forced us to switch one box back to clay litter, which we all hate.

To make matters worse, he developed an irrational fear of the Litter-Robot. That led to accidents in the house and a lot of cursing over a $500 litter box rendered useless by one insolent child.

Even after three years, he’s still weird, still a bit standoffish. He doesn’t let me hold him like Stu did. He doesn’t cuddle. He isn’t a lap cat. I’ve had conversations with him about it.

Sometimes, by accident, we call him Stu. It’s a slip of the tongue, a memory, and a pain that time hasn’t completely erased. So he knows that, through no fault of his own, he is a replacement cat. In some strange way, he is Stu Two. But he’s fine with that, because he also knows I love him for him. He knows I know he isn’t Stu. Still, there are moments when the guilt creeps in.

And now? He supervises everything I do, from laundry folding to dinner prep, positioning himself just far enough away to watch with judgment but close enough to insert himself if he feels like it. His daily naps sprawl across the house like feline performance art, deep and unguarded.

He has a basket on the coffee table where he can nap or watch TV (and yes, he really does watch TV) and be close to us, but not on us. It respects his personal space, something he values greatly, and he will remind me of that, gently, when I press my face into his.

Time heals all wounds, even the ones a cat carries after two years in a cage. Sometimes, when he’s in his basket and I call him, he’ll come and sit on my chest on the couch. He doesn’t stay long and he won’t let me pull him into an embrace, but we are slowly making adjustments and moving in that direction.

He sleeps near the door on the couch and greets me when I get home. He will roll over and show me his belly, though touching it can still be a gamble. He chirps when I open a can of food and knows exactly when it’s dinner time. He comes running every morning for his “coffee treats” and perks up at the sound of a Churu being opened in the evening.

The best thing about Poe is our nightly routine. I call it “good, good boy time,” and it’s become a running joke at the office because I’ve talked about it so much.

Every night, and I mean every night, when it starts to get close to my bedtime, usually around nine, Poe begins to get antsy in his coffee table basket. Every time I walk down the hallway he sits up and waits for me to call him.

When I am finally ready for bed I say, “Ok, Poe, it’s good, good boy time,” and he jumps up, follows me down the hallway, and hops onto the bed. We spend about ten minutes playing and getting pets, and then I lay down on my back and he crawls onto my chest to lie down.

He only stays for ten or fifteen minutes, but it’s enough. I’m a side-sleeper, so if he stayed longer I’d never get any rest. Sometimes he moves to the edge of the bed and sleeps there. Most nights, he sleeps with T and Stella, which annoys me, but what can you do?

Every morning, before my alarm goes off, no matter what time it’s set for, he comes back about ten minutes before it’s due to ring, crawls onto me, and settles in. I think it’s his way of asking me to stay just a little longer.

I know I’m just setting myself up for heartache in the end. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want another Stu. But I’m human, and these sorts of attachments and this sort of love are what make us unapologetically real and raw. I don’t regret it, even if I sometimes fret about it.

And Poe, that little cat in a box, stole my heart all over again, for all the same reasons, and for all the different ones that Stu did.

No matter what, he is Poe: independent, particular, a little mysterious. But in the three years since he came home, the edges have softened. He trusts me now, in his way. And sometimes, when he sits in his basket and blinks slowly at me, I think maybe he’s saying, “You did okay, Mom.”

Adopting Poe was one of those decisions that made the whole world feel a little softer. He’s proof that rescue cats rescue us right back. Here’s to many more years of purrs, headbutts, and unapologetic bed-hogging.

Happy Gotcha Day, Poe, three years as a free-range kitten, and you’ve perfected the art.

The Bridge Between Them and Tomorrow

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ 1 Comment

My parents are my unsung heroes.
They are 77 and 78 years old, and today they laced up their sneakers, grabbed their signs, and marched for justice and freedom—not for themselves, but for the future.

They spent their Saturday standing in the sun—
my dad holding a sign that said Hands off my grandkids’ future,
my mum in a t-shirt about how practical jokes become elected officials.

They marched for freedom.
For justice.
For a tomorrow they might not live to see, but refuse to give up on.

I don’t have children of my own.
I have a niece, a nephew, and a chorus of cousin-kids who orbit close enough to feel like gravity.
They weren’t born to me, but they belong with me.
I’ve cheered them on, watched them grow, held their tiny hands and big feelings.

And I have the thousand students who’ve passed through my classroom and heart across 24 years of teaching.

Family isn’t always about lineage.
Sometimes, it’s about proximity and heart.

These ARE my kids.

And my parents marched for them.

I am who I am because of who my parents were to me when I was growing up.
They weren’t perfect.
They weren’t my best friends.
They usually said no.
They were something more.

They gave me a framework for courage.
They taught me to pay attention—to ask questions, challenge injustice, and stand my ground even when my knees trembled.
They showed me that kindness isn’t weakness—it’s a decision you make over and over again.
That your voice matters, even when it shakes.

Even when it’s silenced.

That ordinary people can do extraordinary things—quietly, consistently, and with stubborn hope.

And I have tried to build something from it.
Something others can walk across.

And today—decades later—they’re still out there showing up.
For my kids.
For your kids.
For our world—the one they still believe in, still carry hope for.

That’s legacy.
That’s love in motion.
That’s the kind of inheritance that matters most.

Not all inheritance comes through a will.
Some of it marches beside you,
sunscreen on, homemade signs in hand,
calling out, “Hands off their future.”

That’s what I got from them.
Not money.
Not land.
But courage.
Conviction.
Movement.

And the kind of love that doesn’t sit still when the world needs it.

That’s the legacy—and the inheritance—I carry forward.
And I take every step with purpose—
to honor them,
as a promise to carry the weight when they are no longer able.

And it’s the one I hope I’m passing on, too.

We are the bridge between them and tomorrow.

Why we stay silent (a story)

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

This has been weeks in the making. This has been weeks of planning. This has been weeks in the “should we do this” phase. This has been years…

In the wake of the announcement of Brett Kavanaugh as a the next SCOTUS justice and the current “issues” surrounding his confirmation, I’ve been thinking. Inundated by all the social media brouhaha my mind has been sent spinning. For anyone who knows me, really knows me, this is a dangerous thing. I was instantly attracted (for lack of a better word) to Dr. Ford’s story. I become instantly obsessed with the story, the backstory, the facts, the division…the lines that were drawn. And I was, reminded.

I wasn’t driven by party lines. I wasn’t driven by this side or that side. I wasn’t concerned with Kavanaugh himself. I was driven by the story. By the hooplah that came with his confirmation. The arguments for and against “rape culture”. The meaning of what his confirmation portends. The meaning of “rape culture” itself. I read article after article. From op-ed pieces chastising 80s romcoms like Sixteen Candles and Animal House, to articles detailing Kavanaugh’s history as a judge. I devoured it. I learned as much as I could. I formed my own opinions. But there was one thing I couldn’t shake, one thing I couldn’t reconcile, one thing I couldn’t ignore…Dr. Ford.

Her story. And the bloodbath that ensued.

I didn’t know what I could do. I watched as denier after denier came forth. I watched as people tore her down, demanded proof that can’t be given, called her names, called her a liar…and I couldn’t take it anymore. I am one person. I have one voice. I have a small audience. I am not a blogger. I am not known. I don’t care to be. But, I have a story. It isn’t mine. I have worked in the past weeks to make it my own. To convince. To cajole. To make this story known. And now, after weeks of convincing I am going to tell you a story of a girl, now a grown woman, who was sexually assaulted. Raped in fact. A woman who has never told anyone of her story but me, because as a girl of 18 she trusted me and this secret we have kept for almost twenty years. She isn’t pleased with me. She both desperately wants this story told and wants to keep this “dirty little secret” unknown. It is our hope that through this story that at least one person will understand, will realize, why we remain silent.

Leanne: Tell me.
Heroine: I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how. I don’t want to.

We sat across from each other. Friends for years. Decades of history between us. Secrets untold, good and bad. A lifetime. I was reminded of being a child; my dad taught us to rub our sock-clad feet across the carpet to build up static electricity. I remember the feeling. The charge. Sliding along the hallway, building. And I remember the moment, when we met in the living room, charged, arm hair standing on end, reaching out to touch fingertips. Knowing. Anticipating the moment when skin met skin and we shocked each other. Sitting across from H I felt this same charge. This same wariness. This same anticipation. The wanting and the fear. Wrapped into one. Beckoning. Taunting. Haunting. Do we? Should we? Can we?

L: Tell me. Start at the beginning. Tell me.
H: I was so young. So naive. I didn’t understand what love was. What love is. I didn’t understand sex. I didn’t…

H: I was sheltered. Well, I wasn’t, but I was. I had a good family. My mom and dad protected me. They didn’t smother me, but they weren’t the parents that let me drink at home. They had rules. They had morals. I was raised Catholic. I was raised… to believe. I had “rules”. I had…I don’t know. I just grew up knowing right from wrong. I grew up protected. I grew up…safe…

H: I went to college about 5 hours from home. It was a small school. I didn’t really know anyone there. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have a background. I was scared and I was excited. I had a chance to reinvent myself. I had a chance to be…just be…whatever I wanted. (falls silent for minutes…)

L: Is that a crime? To want to be someone else? To want to be something more than you were in high school? To find who you are?
H: I don’t know. I wrestled with it. Who I was. Who I thought I was. Who I was becoming. I was young. It was confusing. I wanted more than anything to be accepted. I told lies. I misrepresented myself. I broke out. I wanted to be…more…
L: So you lied about who you were in high school?
H: Yes and no. I was a version of myself. A phantom. Secretive. Intriguing. I was interesting, or I tried to be. I wanted to be likable. I wanted to be desired. I wanted to be…cool.
L: So you branched out. You pledged a sorority right?
H: I did. I didn’t know much about them, I wasn’t a legacy or anything, but I wanted something that I could connect to. You know? And I got a bid. It was bizarre. I went from knowing no one to knowing this entire sisterhood. All these people who said they loved me and valued me. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I didn’t want to be a “dud”. Does that make sense? It sounds so stupid now.

L: I do know, I joined the same sorority, for the same reasons. I needed a connection. I was six hours from home, knew no one after volleyball ended and I was alone. I needed people. I get it.

H: So you know, we were connected to a lot of fraternities. We were expected to attend mixers and parties. It wasn’t a bad thing. I enjoyed it. Walking in to a party, being a …, being known. There was a fearlessness to it. A power that came from being a …, even if I was just a pledge. I belonged. I had a right to be there. I was someone.

H: I don’t know where to go from there. I was in college. I was experiencing college and life and drinking. I was wild I guess… certainly wilder than I had been in high school. I worried that my parents would find out. That they would know I was out drinking, staying out until 2, 3, 4 in the morning. Doing things that they would never approve of. I was walking a line. The person I was, the person I was experimenting with and the person I wanted to be.
L: I don’t think that’s unusual. We all did that in college. It was our first time away from home. It was our first time without parental constraints. We all did things we aren’t proud of now, we all did things we hope our parents never know about. It doesn’t make it right, but it was sort of growing pains yea? Like it just came with the territory?
H: Yes? No? I mean, the goal was education. We lost that at times though didn’t we? I mean, we lost who we were. Who were supposed to be… becoming… like we were supposed to become this person that our parents or society or whatever wanted us to be. Maybe that’s the purpose. Maybe not. I don’t know. It was so long ago. I don’t know why it matters now. And yet I can’t let it go, I can’t forget it. The nostalgia creeps in. The longing of me then versus the me now. I hate you for this. I love you. I always will. But I hate you right now. This isn’t a story I want to tell.

L: I sort of hate me too but I can’t let it go.

L: Tell me again, about that night. Tell me about him. This is our chance. Not to crucify him, but to shed light on it. To make people understand. To at least bring understanding. We won’t name him. We won’t name his fraternity. We aren’t doing this for retribution. It’s too late for late for that. But maybe, just maybe, someone will read this and realize, “holy shit”…

We sit in silence for what seems like hours. Nostalgia. Longing. Reconciling. Remembering. Hovering between us. Then she speaks. Tenuous at first. Shaky. But as the story progresses so does her voice and her conviction. It’s haunting. It’s frightening. It’s awe-inspiring. To watch 18 years of shame. 18 years of fear and anger and secrets unfold before me. This isn’t my story….

H: It was a Saturday.
H: It was always a Saturday for this fraternity. We had a schedule…Thursday, Friday, Saturday…even Monday-Wednesday, there was always a party to be had. But it was Saturday. I’ll never forget that.
H: I got there around 9 pm, I had been drinking prior to that. We were in the basement. We always went straight to the basement. I stood off to the side. He came up to me. He was cute. He was a pledge. His name was … he spelled it … which I liked. It was different. He was so cute. He talked to me all night. He paid attention. He was kind. We probably spent three hours in the basement, just talking, laughing, hanging out, and occasionally sneaking a kiss. Neither of us were allowed to “hook up” as pledges. This was forbidden. It was dangerous. What if the sisters saw? What if his brothers saw? We were breaking the rules. We were being defiant. We were testing them. We were fearless.

H: The party was ending, people had left, the basement was emptying. Brothers were heading to their rooms, some alone, some with girls they’d picked up. My sisters were gone, I was alone. I had stayed too long at the party and I was in an awkward place. He lived in the dorms. Not my dorm, but across campus. We agreed to walk back to campus together. There was a shortcut through the woods and he didn’t want me to walk alone. He was a gentlemen. I was drunk. I was thankful for him. I was glad I wasn’t alone.

H: We got to my dorm, I remember standing outside smoking a cigarette. We were just talking. I didn’t want the night to end. This was my first romantic connection in college. This was my first college boy. I was giddy. I wanted the “date” to continue. I felt alive. I felt desired. I felt wicked.
H: I invited him up to my room. I knew my roommate wasn’t home. She went home every weekend because she had a boyfriend in her hometown. I knew I had the room to myself. I knew we’d be alone. I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted him.

H: I wanted him. I was so drunk. I was so convinced. I wanted him. He was so cute. He was so kind.

H: I wanted him.

H: He kissed me. Again and again, we kissed, in the dark, in my dorm room, alone. His hands were on me. Slow at first, then frantic. Pulling at my clothes. Grabbing. Almost manic. I wanted him and then I didn’t. I was frightened of him. I was frightened of his need. His desire. This wasn’t like a movie. This wasn’t a fairytale. I wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t here to rescue me. I was drunk and unstable on my feet. His breath was hot and tasted of stale beer and tobacco. I felt sick. I felt unsure. I felt dirty. I didn’t understand this, I wasn’t a virgin. I had had sex twice in high school. Once with a boyfriend I thought I loved and once with one I did. I didn’t recognize what it was or what it meant until that moment. But I realized, in that moment, I didn’t want this. I didn’t love him. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to have sex with him. I didn’t want this. But here I was, I had brought him back to my dorm room. I had invited him up. I had asked for this. And now, I was saying no. I was a tease. I was “that girl” the one no one wanted to be, the girl they all talked about and despised. I didn’t want to be her. I didn’t want to be here. I was in agony but I felt obligated. After all, I invited him…yet I heard myself say NO.

H: I said NO. I said NO over and over again. I was crying. I was pleading with him. NO, PLEASE. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

H: He put his hand over my mouth, he said “shhhh, it will be over in a minute”, (NO NO NO NO…PLEASE) “shhhhh”…”you’ll like it, I promise” (NO NO NO PLEASE NO)…”you asked me here”…(NO, PLEASE NOT LIKE THIS NO) “you wanted this”… (whimper…)…

H: It was over so quickly. So quickly. It’s an eternity and yet it was moments. A breath. A moment. In hindsight…nothing….
H: I was sobbing. He climbed off of me and off the top bunk, grabbed his clothes and in his boxers, he ran from my room, clothes in the crook of his arm, boxer-clad, naked, he ran. Just like that…he was gone…and I was there, skirt askew, innocence lost, humiliation suffocating me and I didn’t know what to do. What did I do wrong? Why did this happen? Was this my fault? Why did he run? Why did he abandon me? Why am I alone? What the f…is wrong with me? What DID I DO????

L: And you didn’t report it? You didn’t go immediately to the police? Why?

H: I don’t know. I was so confused. I was so ashamed. I was so…afraid. I went downstairs to the second floor. I had friends there. They smoked in their room and I needed a cigarette. I just needed a friend. So I went to the second floor. I went to Andy. I trusted him. I was scared. I was confused. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I needed to talk to someone.

L: And you found Andy?
H: I did.
L: What did you tell him?
H: He asked why I was crying. I told him I had just had sex with guy I didn’t want to have sex with.
L: What did he say?
H: He laughed.
L: I’m sorry, he laughed?
H: Yea, he laughed, he said “welcome to college, we all do things we aren’t proud of.”
L: Holy shit, I don’t know what to say to that…did you argue with him? Did you explain the situation to him? What the absolute f…
H: No. He was right. I asked for it. It was my fault. I put myself in that situation and I got what I deserved. I felt like I owed him. Like he was warranted sex because I had led him to believe that I wanted to sleep with him.

L: Ok. Let’s look beyond then to now. You never reported this right?
H: No, I never said anything. I was so afraid and so humiliated.
L: Afraid? Of what? Humiliated? Why?
H: I couldn’t imagine my parents finding out. How do I explain to them that I was drunk and invited a guy up to my room. How do I justify that? How do I explain to my dad that I wanted to have sex with a stranger? That I led him to this and then had second thoughts? How do you explain that? How do you say, I was drunk, I was horny, and then I changed my mind? How do you spin that without sounding like a whore? How do you relay that to your parents without destroying everything they tried to instill you from a young age? How do you admit that without admitting that you failed them? And then go beyond the parents. What if no one believes you? What if you call the police and they arrest you for underage drinking? What if the girls in the sorority hate you because you ruined the relationship with the fraternity. What if you become “that girl”? What if you become the girl no one ever wants to date or hang out with. What if you become a social pariah? What if…what if…what if…. I was 18. I was a child. I was so… I mean…how do you tell that story without being culpable?

How do you tell this story without being culpable?

This is the culture we live in. This is the culture I grew up in. This is my friend. She isn’t a liar. She isn’t delusional. The story she told me 18 years ago hasn’t changed from the story she told me two weeks ago. The wound hasn’t healed. We ask ourselves, how could Dr. Ford possibly remember these details… well, this is how…

H: I don’t remember the room number of my dorm. But I remember his name.
H: I don’t remember most of the classes I took in college. But I remember his face.
H: I have outfits in my closet I don’t remember buying. But I remember what I had on that night.
H: I remember where I was on 9/11. I can tell you the details of that day. Where I was, who I was with, what I thought. And I can remember the details of that April night. In my 41 years there are two events I can recall in vivid detail. One was the terrorist attack on 9/11 and one was that night with … in my dorm room.

There is shame in this story. There is humiliation.  A belief of wrongdoing. An anger. But it’s not what you think. The shame. The humiliation. The regret. It is found within a girl, now a woman, terrified of how the world would/will judge her if she speaks up. This event took place in the spring of 1996. The hurt, the pain, the emotion I see in her eyes, it isn’t faked. It isn’t contrived. It is real. I believe her. Without proof or evidence, I believe her.

We looked up the offender on facebook, thinking he’d be a non-entity, darkly hoping he was dead, or in jail, but it took no effort to find him. He’s friends with our friends. He has a career. He writes music about love. He sings about women he secretly covets and the lengths he would go to to so they would love him. He lives a normal existence. He isn’t outwardly tarnished or tormented by this past. He bares no scars. He exudes no remorse or regret. He shows no fear or humiliation. He is without blame. He is without name. He is without shame. He is without…

Women don’t report sexual assaults. They don’t report being raped. They don’t say anything because we live in a society that rapes them a second time when they do speak up. There is no proof I can provide to this story. There are no witnesses. There is no evidence. It is simply my word against yours…or his…And does he even know? Is this even on his radar? Is there something in the back of his mind that haunts him daily? Does he wake up and think “rapist”? Or does he just go on? As we just go on? Do we, does he, brush it off as capricious youth and boys being boys? Do we, does he, justify this behavior as college drunkenness and simply something unfortunate that happens?

This story isn’t an anomaly. This woman isn’t one in a million.

She’s your daughter.

She’s your sister.

She’s your wife.

She’s your best friend.

And she is scared and she is ashamed.

Do you believe her or do you blame her?

We all have free will. We all have a choice. We all have a line we can draw. We all can choose what we choose to believe. Who we believe. We all have the choice to abandon morality and humanity. We and only WE can determine what we do next. Where do you stand?

On growing old.. and other stuff…

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ 2 Comments

I think, as we grow older and then even older still… As we move through those stages of grief, “I’m almost 30”, “I’m almost 40”, “fuck, I’m almost dead”… I think we start to notice the passing of time as an actual marching. Time (or the lack thereof) becomes something you can feel. Time becomes something you can almost hear. It is that steady “boom, boom, boom” that hits you deep in the bones. You can feel the pulse in your arches and in your toes, it mutes your ears and makes you feel like you are listening to life underwater. It stops you in your tracks and you spend a dizzying few moments recalibrating and acclimatizing to the world around you.

I think, we start to realize how important it is to remember and connect with the people who knew you when you were young and when you were you. How else do we explain having 951 friends on Facebook? And I’m not talking about the you that grew and grew up. Not the you that learned, and fucked up and recovered. Not the you that has now settled into a groove that includes baby aspirin and fish oil. Not that you. Not the you that haunts your dreams and wakes you with “what if”. Not that you. Not the you, when there was a you, that had the world in front of them and choices to make… choices that now are life and the status quo… that now define YOU… And still, that you, the one that always persists and is always there, lurking, just beneath the surface, that comes at you with more choices: Is this the life you chose? Is this what you want? Is this all there is? Is this milk still good?”  

I think, we spin our wheels and fight the current, but just like salmon coming to spawn, we too come home. We become our parents and we grow old (the thing we fear most as children). But we also realize that our parents, they gave all to have us, they had dreams and lives and choices to make, and they chose us. And be it out of kindness or couth they never mention it. The other paths. The other possibilities. The other lives. And then you realize that every possible road was only possible because it was carefully and concertedly cultivated for you. Because someone else gave that to you. 

I think, you decide to choose the next road wisely and with intention and deliberation. You decide, this time will better, more brilliant, more WHATEVER… so you can honor that. So you can BE that. And then you realize that you don’t have to be more, not for them, you’re enough. You learn you can atone for the stupid shit you did, or you said when you were 14 and angry and thought you knew everything. When the worst thing in the world you could be was your parents. When you didn’t know or understand them. When you didn’t know what they are or who they are. When you were young, and dumb, and so woefully without worry or care. You will always carry that guilt, but you know, they’ve forgiven you.

I think, eventually, it all comes to pass. All of it. The triumphs, the falls, the absolute abysmal moments that make you ashamed to this day. You know the ones, that you don’t talk about at Christmas or when the family finds themselves all together because of death or birth or some other ritual we pay homage to. Those moments we talk around and laugh about carefully. Those moments that will always remind you of your past indiscretions and failures. But all of that…All of it… It. Comes. To. Pass. You find forgiveness and grace in acceptance. You find laughter in the impossible. You find stories and moments and memories in the midst of the most unlikely of places. You finally learn to understand, and then you finally understand. And if you are lucky, you learn to embrace what has been in front of you all these years. You learn that it’s all so much bigger than you. You learn that giants and fairytales have human and humble beginnings. You learn that life isn’t finite but it is final. And despite it all, you learn to smile.

On life and love and other stuff…

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

Life is hard, you know? Like, it’s always something, it’s always one more thing, it’s always one more issue. Life just keeps happening. And no matter how hard we work to slow it down, it never does. It never comes back to our pace. We get caught up in the drama of it all and we forget who we are and who we were. There is such a disconnect between the person I was in high school and the person I am now. There is this girl who wants the world. And then, there is this girl who realizes she’s 41 and should just be happy she can pay her mortgage. We all make sacrifices. The broken promises. The forgotten dreams. The hurt. We focus on the now and our wants and we forget that there is actually a lot of beauty around us. There is a lot of love around us. I think sometimes we just choose to ignore it because we’d rather feel sorry for ourselves. We’d rather marinate in the bad and the never was or never will be. I do that. I do that a lot. I find myself lost in daydreams, thinking about a future that won’t be, hoping for a love that is never going to be, and I lose sight of the path in front of me. I struggle because I have a good life. I have a life of plenty. I travel. I have adventures. I have friends. But somedays I forget that. Somedays I focus on what I don’t have, on what I don’t know. Somedays it’s harder than others to let this doubt go. Somedays it’s really hard for me to move on. Somedays I find myself fighting tooth and nail for something I want, only to always come up wanting. Some days, I just say to hell with it, and move on. Tonight, I don’t know where I am. I find myself somewhere between hope and f$%* it. I find myself trying and trying and trying and every time I try this little voice is telling me “just stop”, “let it go”, “move on”, “they don’t care”. I think we all find ourselves there most days. I think we all tend to spend our lives walking that line, teetering on that boundary of what is and what could be. Uncertain. Certain. Hopeful. Hopeless. Hoping.

The bottom line is this. Nothing ever works out how you had it planned. Nothing is ever going to be how you imagined it. There is no Prince Charming (sorry guys… and girls). Everyone disappoints you. There is no pre-packaged happily ever after. Everything is work. Work is work. Life is work. Relationships are work. Love is work. People are work. Getting up in the morning is work. Going to bed at night is work. And you don’t always get out of it what you put into it. That’s the BIG lie I think. Someone always says, “just work harder, just give more…” but sometimes you give everything to someone and they let you down. Sometimes you love unconditionally and find yourself alone because the other person has conditions. Sometimes you find yourself in love with a coward. Sometimes you find yourself in love with a person who is just cruel because they can be. Sometimes you find yourself in love with a person who just doesn’t know what they want or who they want. Sometimes you just pick the wrong person to love. I mean hell, sometimes you work 18 hour days when no one else does and still get fired. Sometimes shit just happens. There isn’t a rhyme or reason to this. There isn’t an answer. I think we as humans need an answer, why have to know why. I ask all the time, but sometimes I just don’t get an answer, so do I keep asking or do I let go? I never know. Do I fight or do I concede? I always find myself fighting and I always find myself wishing I had just flown the white flag. I am so tired of fighting for lost causes. I am so tired of fighting for things that just break my heart. And yet, I never stop fighting and I hate myself for that. I will let a person tear me down time and time again and I will keep coming back for more. I think we all do this. I think this is the basis of human nature.

When I was in the 2nd grade I read a book on Sally Ride, I decided I wanted to be an astronaut. When I was in the 4th grade the Challenger blew up and when I was in high school my math teacher told me “some people just can’t do math”. So I quit that dream. If you read my high school yearbook I said I was going to be a news anchor on NBC. When I started college as a communication major my mentor and professor Dr. Feliciti looked around the room and said “most of you won’t make it in tv. You have faces for radio.” So I quit that dream. If there was ever face for radio, it was mine. I had 11 majors in college. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’m still not sure I know I want to be when I grow up. I’m ok with that. I’ve learned to be alright with that. Eventually, I’ll figure my shit out. Eventually we’ll all figure our shit out.

Bad shit happens. Some of us turn to God, some of us turn to friends, some of us become depressed, some of us write, some of us cry and rage against the world. I mean a bug just flew up nose as I type this. I could ask why or I could just blow it out and go about my day. Ok, I can’t move on. It’s really up there. Oh dear Lord, I think I just felt it move. See, life isn’t easy. Some days you’re on top of the world, some days you have a bug lodged in your sinuses and you kill a squirrel. It’s all relative. It’s all cyclical. You have good days and you have bad days. What was the song? You have going half sad days? I can’t find it on Google, which means I’ve made the lyrics up, if you know me, you aren’t surprised (there’s nothing a hundred men on Mars wouldn’t do…I bless the rains down in Africa) The point is. Life is a roller coaster of emotion, of ups and downs, of twists and turns. It’s never going to be what you imagined or planned.

So you have a choice, accept this so-called life and embrace it or wallow in it. It’s not an easy choice, don’t be mad at me, don’t say “I try”, don’t tell me I’m downplaying the hurt or the emotion or the loss or the hopelessness. It’s not easy for me either. I spend days worrying. I spend countless hours fretting. I panic and I rage and I pray and I hope and I cry. I don’t have the answers either. I’m more imperfect then I care to admit. In fact, I’m writing this because I’m trying to make sense of my life right now. I’m trying to reconcile my dreams and my reality. I’m trying to move on. I’m trying to let go. And along the way I’ve discovered a few things I see as truths. A few things I find comfort in. A few things that when I’m at my lowest. When my thoughts are at their darkest. When I lie awake at night and cry silently into my pillow. These things come to me with the light of dawn and remind me, that as bad I think it is, there is still good. There is still hope.

So this is my top ten list, Dave Letterman watch out. I’ve been putting some of it on Facebook as my Monday Motivation, but a few friends asked me to put all in one place…so here it is. Go forth, be happy, in the end you’re the only person in the world who can control that.

  1. Accept defeats and failures. Every loss is an opportunity to learn. Every beating is a chance to grow. I had a boss who told me once, “if you’re going to fail Leanne, fail fast, and move on”. It’s good advice.
  2. If you love someone. Tell them. Fight for them. Don’t let distance, or past slights, or silence stop you from lifting them up. They may be going through something you don’t understand.
  3. If you love someone and they don’t love you back. If they don’t value you. If they tear you down and make you feel less than whole, then you ignore #2 and you move on. You deserve more.
  4. Don’t try to change people. Everyone is imperfect. Everyone has flaws. You need to find and surround yourself with people that have flaws you can live with. No one should ever be “your project”.
  5. Learn to listen. I mean, really, listen. Don’t just nod and smile and think of your response. It’s ok to have an awkward silence and say “I’m processing what you said” before you respond.
  6. If someone says you’ve hurt them, don’t rationalize it. Don’t justify it. Don’t defend yourself. Everyone has a different perception of this world. If they say you’ve hurt them, even if you think you didn’t, even if you think it’s silly…you’ve hurt them. Accept this, seek to understand this, and don’t do it again.
  7. If you’re mad at someone or frustrated or annoyed, don’t ignore them. Don’t go silent. My sister has been writing a lot lately and today on Twitter she posted this poem and it ended with “I Am Not Your Silence, Anymore”. She may kill me for pilfering it, but it spoke to me. Everyone deserves an answer. Whether it’s convenient or not, everyone deserves an answer. Don’t be “that guy” (or girl) who doesn’t have enough compassion to just say what’s uncomfortable. You wouldn’t like it if it was done to you. So don’t do it to others.
  8. Do unto others as you would want done unto you. The Golden Rule baby. It’s so easy to make snap judgments. To lash out. To hate. To tear down. We always talk about people who can dish it out but not take it. Don’t be that person. Covey was right, always seek first to understand. Always choose kindness.
  9. Smile at strangers. This is actually a fun one. No matter where I am or what I am doing, at Target, Harris Teeter, downtown Concord, I walk, head up, and I smile at everyone I see. I say hi, I nod, I think I actually make some people uncomfortable, “why is this woman looking at me and smiling?”. Everyone deserves a smile.
  10. Love yourself. Before anyone else can love you, you have to love you. You have to accept yourself and all your flaws and imperfections. This is the hardest one of them all. We live in a world that wants us to be thinner, prettier, smarter, richer, but that world is what tears us down. Learn to laugh at yourself and learn to love yourself. No one is perfect. No one is lacking demons. No one is better than you. My friend Erin used to say, “they put their pants on the same way you do in the morning” (or something similar).

At the end of the day, we’re all hamsters on the same wheel. We all have dreams and hopes and wants and aspirations. We’ll all fail and rise up. We’ll all cry and love and hate and judge. We’re all human. We all make mistakes. At the end of the day, I just want to make sure that I was kind, that I was understanding, that I didn’t hurt anyone, that I didn’t do harm. Maybe I was productive. Maybe I was awesome. Maybe I was a hot mess. Regardless, the sun is going to come up tomorrow. How are you going to greet it?

Tilt

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

There are moments that define us. Moments, that as you stand on the bridge, swaying from the booze, or maybe it’s the fear, staring into the abyss, that you know will change your life forever. Moments, when you know, you’re going to jump.

I was a junior in college when I fell in love for the second time in my life. And I mean, I fell hard, in love, with Billy Kissell. He was in my class that summer, an archaeological dig, he also worked at the same bar I did. We became instant friends and laughed as we referred to each other as brother and sister. Something that both saddened and invigorated me. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be his sister, but on the other hand, he cared for me enough to see me as family. It was a confusing time for me.

Billy brought out the crazy in me. We partied too hard, ditched class, slept in. I was willing to put my future in jeopardy on the off-chance that he would think I was cool enough, and good enough to be with him. This dig was my chance to experience my chosen field first-hand. Dr. Prezzanno had high hopes for me and each day that Billy and I rolled up to the dig, in my car, having missed the van, almost on time or often quite late I saw that hope in me fading, but I didn’t care. That’s not true, I did care, but I couldn’t stop it. It was like an addiction. I had never felt this way before and I didn’t know how or didn’t want to know how to manage it. We’d leave at lunch to go the IGA for food, while everyone else ate packed lunches at the site. We’d laugh and cut up the whole time about how much trouble we were in and how much trouble we were. At night we’d party at his house, playing Zoomy Zoomy or Asshole and staying up into the wee hours of the morning.

The culminating night for us was when we drove out to what I call Mill Creek. It may or may not have been called that, but in my memory that was what it was a called. A small off-shoot of the Clarion River, down a long, steep, winding dirt road through the woods, to a pull-off and an old bridge. We stripped down to our underwear and climbed up on the bridge railing. I’ll never forget the feeling, his hand in mine, the darkness surrounding us, the water whispering below us. I was so afraid. I was so alive.

We fell forever that night. Into the dark, into the deep. I can still remember the rush of the air as we dropped. The sharp, jarring shock of the water as it first struck and then engulfed us. The joy and the laughter as we climbed up time and time again to jump off the Mill Creek Bridge. It’s a moment frozen in the time of my memory. Distorted, glossed-over I’m sure, but it is there and it reminds me.

Class ended a few days later and I didn’t see Billy very much after that. Whatever we had was gone. Lost forever to that summer. I resumed my studies, buckled down and got on with life.

I’m 41 now. Sometimes I look back on this memory with a strange sense of longing and nostalgia, sometimes I look back on it with a sense of horror at what could have happened. I guess that’s just the nature of growing older and dare I say wiser? Regardless of how I remember it, I am thankful for it.

We all need a Billy Kissell in our lives. We all need something to rock us off our axis and tilt our world so that we remember to live. Life is full of moments we let pass us by because we’re too afraid to take the leap. I’d like to think that if faced with jumping off of the Mill Creek Bridge at two o’clock in the morning again, I’d politely decline, but part of me isn’t so sure. Part of me knows…I’d jump.

You

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

There is a dream.

It is fleeting,
It is dulled grey,
blurred around the edges,
fuzzy.
It is subtle,
It is subdued.
It is you.

It doesn’t have substance,
or body
or reality.
It doesn’t hurt,
but it brings pain.
It is need.
It is you.

It doesn’t last when the morning comes,
yet It lingers,
on my lips,
in my hands,
tearing at my soul,
always on my mind.
It is you.

It is patient,
It is angst.
It is the devil on my shoulder.
It is hope for tomorrow.
It is fear,
of wanting.
It is you.

There is a song,
a melody,
and It recalls.
It reminds,
It beckons to my mind,
remember.
It is you.

It is a touch,
It is an image,
It blooms like a storm,
I see it,
I feel it,
I reach toward it,
It is you.

There is a dream.

It is you.

Love letter

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

My love,

This began as a story. A story of us. A way for me to get it all out and rationalize what I am feeling. A way to combat the sleepless, longing and lonely nights without you in my arms. Then I realized it’s just too personal and I realized it isn’t a story, it’s a letter. A letter to you. To the man that I have come to know and come to love and come to need. I have to write this. I have to write this because I know that what we have can’t be sustained. I know that what we have will fade and tatter and slowly flutter away because the odds are stacked against us. The world doesn’t want this for us. And deep down, in places we don’t talk about at parties, we don’t want this for us. But there is a place in my heart, a place so deep in my soul that no one before and no one after will ever know but you, that I want this. So our story is now a letter; a love letter, to you. I’ve never written one like it before. I’ll never write another like it again.

There are moments. And then there are moments. You never know where you’ll be when lightning strikes and you can never be prepared for it. As a young girl I grew up watching Rom Coms; Julia Roberts being swept off her feet by a bazillionaire, saved from a torrid life on the streets, Meg Ryan hiding in a closet listening to talk radio and being rescued by Tom Hanks on top of the Empire State Building. These movies. These fantasies. They aren’t reality. I’m 41. I’ve never danced in the rain while Frank Sinatra sang in the background. I’ve never had a secret rendezvous on a mega yacht or a skyscraper or even a house in the suburbs for that matter. To put it quite bluntly, I’ve never been swept off my feet. When I was a little girl my mom didn’t lock me in my closet when I was bad and I didn’t have to fantasize that Prince Charming would come charging in, arm raised to rescue me. In fact, when the time came for us to have the “talk”, you know the one about birds and bees and the fact that a stork didn’t actually drop me on my expectant parents doorstep one night, my mom simply said this, “honey, sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be”. Now that is parenting at it’s finest. And that my darling, left a lasting impression.

So, I grew up. Watching tv, watching movies, listening to power ballads about love and loss, living in reality but hoping in secret fantasy. Desperately wishing that one day Prince Charming would come rescue me. Day dreaming about boys and a life less than ordinary while keeping my feet on the ground and my eyes on the prize. I’ve never been one to settle. I’m goal-oriented, I’m practical. And yet, when it came to love, I was a disaster. I always found myself falling hard and fast for the first person that gave me any attention. I always settled. Tell me you love me. Tell me fast. Or else I’ll lose interest. And I remember, I remember so clearly that feeling when I got what I wanted. It was so empty. It was so shallow. I had broken another one down. I had gotten what I wanted and I was out. There were no fireworks. There was no tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach. There was no flutter in my heart. There was no stirring in my soul.

Now, to be fair, I’m an antsy individual. ADHD to a fault. I can’t sit still. I’m fidgety, I’m on edge, I’m constantly in motion and on the go. I don’t sleep for more than two to three hours a night. I always laugh it off and say, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’, but deep down I’d kill for a solid eight-hours. Deep down I wish I could shut my mind off, I wish I could just relax. Even in my writing I’m all over the place, stream of consciousness…Jack Kerouac and Burroughs watch out, ‘cause you got competition from this girl. See what I mean? There I go again… Anyway, I had this storm raging inside me. This duality. I was this level, grounded, focused, and driven person to the outside world, but on the inside, on the inside I was a tumult of emotion and desire. A tossing and turning sea of wants and needs and dreams. I’d lay awake at night and have the most epic adventures. Pirates. Monsters under my bed. Bad guys who needed thwarted. Secret plots to overthrow the government. Distant shores. Love that left me speechless. Each night was a new story and a new chance at feeling alive. Sometimes, if I liked the plot-line I had created enough I could keep a fantasy going for days, even weeks. Usually these tales involved stolen moments and secret kisses. Kissing that involved someone grabbing my face with both hands and breathing me in. Kissing that made my stomach flip and my hands tingle. Kissing that left me breathless and wanting more. Always. Wanting. More. It was a song on the wind, Elvis Costello’s She and some guy who said “this is you babe, this is what you make me feel”,

She may be love that cannot hope to last, may come to me from shadows in the past, that I’ll remember till the day I die. The meaning of my life is she.

It was always some guy who just drank me in. Saw me in my entirety. And as I waited, and hoped, and dreamed, I became more and more jaded.

I didn’t get that. I got fists and anger and rage. I got accusations and jealousy and judgment. I got demands and ultimatums and truths I didn’t want to hear. I got stifled. I got put down. I got let down. I got jaded. And so I hardened myself to the world. I hardened myself to love. I stopped believing. I stopped dreaming. I stopped hoping. I stopped wishing. I stopped feeling. I settled. I picked guys who didn’t use their fists to wear me down. Who didn’t make my life difficult. I settled time and time again for men who thought they loved me and I’m sure did, in their own way. But deep down, I had given up. I had given up hope and I had given up my dreams. Somewhere, way back when, the little girl who dreamt of a love that the moon and the stars would lie down and be still for, stopped dreaming.

Then I met you. And baby, that little girl came alive. All of a sudden. All at once. Screaming and beating on the walls of my psyche to be set free and let go. Open to possibility. Wanting beyond what I ever thought was possible to desire. Begging me to let you in and let her have a chance. A chance at a life. A chance at a life less than ordinary. A life of kisses that left her wanting. A life of being seen and heard and loved so completely and so thoroughly that there are moments when she is left breathless and stunned and so completely overwhelmed that she can’t move. And so I did, I let you in and I let her out. You have awakened in me something I never thought was possible. You are that dream. You have renewed my faith for all the little girls led astray by life and movies and music. You have shown me that there is such a thing as wild abandon and fantasy.

So you see my love,  I needed to tell you. I needed to let you know, that despite what happens, despite the fact that I know this will end. That you have saved me. That you have opened my heart and my soul to a set of possibilities and wonders I long ago stopped believing existed.

Thank you.

I love you. Very simply. Very true.

Cornflakes

~ Diary of a Kitten Addict ~ Leave a comment

You know me,
the girl in the back of the class
who has all the answers
to all the questions
but who can’t seem to get the professor’s attention
and who doesn’t think she is pretty enough, or good enough
to get yours.

You know me,
the girl who looks awkward in a skirt
but right at home in men’s jeans
who has a mom that says
‘why can’t you get all As and dress like a girl and marry a lawyer?’

You know me,
the girl standing by the bar
laughing too loudly
just trying to get her three dollars worth of beer
that tastes like shit anyways.
Courage that doesn’t go down easy.

You know me,
but not the real me.
Not the me that has crazy thoughts
and dangerous dreams
of faraway places and crystalline waters
chasing billowing sails.
Who sees you in tattered dreams
faded and soft around the edges of a memory
long erased
while I try to study for psychology
as the Beatles sing about Kaleidoscope Eyes and Cornflakes

Ya, you know me…