Why Do I Keep Telling Myself It’s Not That Bad?

Before I lost her, I knew it would be hard when she finally did go.

Sometimes the mere thought of her no longer being around would form a lump in my throat. Tears would fill my eyes before anything had even happened.

And I'd push them down.

She's here.

She's fine.

Stop thinking about this.

I didn't want to feel the grief of something I hadn't lost yet.

So I didn't.

Or at least I tried not to.

And then she left.

She ran away, actually.

I didn't even get to say goodbye.

One day she was here.

And then she wasn't.

Maybe that was part of it.

Maybe that was part of why I became more numb than sad. More avoidant than anything else.

Because there was still hope.

Hope that I could cling to. Hope that gave me something to do instead of something to feel.

So I focused on finding her.

I set out a live trap with her food inside. I walked down by the woods every night and called for her.

Then I'd stop.

And sit in the silence that was supposed to tell her it was safe.

I'd listen.

Wait.

Nothing.

The weather got colder.

I couldn't tolerate thinking about her out there because she hated being cold.

So I didn't.

I shoved the thoughts away.

Pushed the feelings down.

Kept going.

Eventually, almost a year passed.

And I decided I was ready to adopt another cat.

I knew what kind of personality I wanted. My kids wanted another black cat. I knew I wanted a tiny little one.

So I started looking.

I applied to adopt.

I inquired with shelters.

I answered emails and sent new ones.

I met her.

I held her.

I signed the papers.

I brought her home.

I went through all the motions.

And then I was lying in bed.

She climbed up beside me and snuggled into me.

She nuzzled my nose.

And I broke.

Not in a bad way.

In a way I didn't even know needed to happen.

My shoulders dropped.

My lungs expanded.

Warmth spread through my entire body.

And I felt settled.

For the first time in almost a year, I felt settled.

I hadn't even known how unsettled I'd been.

The tears started coming.

They cascaded down my face and onto her soft black fur, and with every drop there seemed to be a little bit of everything.

Sadness.

For what I'd lost.

Relief.

Something that felt a little like healing.

I hadn't known how much tension had built.

I hadn't known how much effort it had taken to hold everything where I'd put it.

I hadn't known how many times I'd told myself I was fine when I wasn't.

I hadn't felt unsafe.

That's not quite it.

But I hadn't felt safe either.

And apparently there was a difference.

I hadn't known how much tension it took to keep all those feelings down until suddenly I didn't have to anymore.

So I cried.

And finally said some of the words out loud that I'd been pushing away.

I let myself feel the things I'd been scared to feel.

And lying there, I realized.

I already knew this.

Logically, I knew what my cat had meant to me.

I knew what her presence did for me.

I used to call her my sleep siren.

There was something about having her there that could settle me in a way very little else does.

I knew that.

I had known that for years.

And we could probably get into all the reasons why.

I have some good guesses.

But I don't really think that's the point.

Because I knew it logically.

And somehow, I still denied it emotionally.

After she disappeared, I'd tell myself:

It's not that bad.

I'm making too much of this.

I shouldn't be this impacted by a cat running away.

Other people's pets go missing.

And then, because apparently that wasn't enough:

Other people deal with far, far worse.

Could you imagine having a child go missing?

And there it was.

The comparison that could make my own experience small enough to put away.

So be grateful.

All your kids are here.

Go give them a big squeeze.

Go make dinner.

And I would.

I explained away why falling asleep had gotten harder.

I found reasons I wasn't settling in the evenings the way I used to.

And there were plenty.

Good ones, actually.

Life was full.

I was tired.

There was always something going on.

The explanations made sense.

Maybe that's why they were so easy to believe.

Because the other explanation felt almost embarrassing.

I don't have my cat.

How could that possibly explain so much?

How could a cat be that important?

It seemed silly.

Small.

And I want to be very clear here.

Only when it was me.

If someone else told me she'd lost an animal she loved and hadn't felt quite right since, I don't think I'd question it for a second.

I wouldn't tell her it was only a cat.

I wouldn't ask whether she had enough of a reason to be affected.

I wouldn't remind her that children go missing or people lose spouses or somewhere in the world someone is experiencing something objectively worse.

I wouldn't require her pain to be the worst pain before I allowed it to hurt.

But apparently I required that of myself.

Why?

Why did I keep denying that this could be a thing for me?

Why did I need to determine whether losing her should affect me this much before I could acknowledge that it did?

Because it did.

That's the maddeningly simple answer.

It did.

Whether it should have or shouldn't have.

Whether someone else would have experienced it differently.

Whether there were other explanations for why that year felt the way it did.

Whether there were objectively bigger things happening in the world.

It affected me.

Why couldn't that just be true?

I think that's what hit me lying there with this new little cat.

She didn't create something that night.
She revealed something.

Maybe it shouldn't have mattered that much.

Maybe someone else wouldn't have been affected the same way.

Maybe there were a dozen other reasons I had been having a harder time.

But it mattered to me.

And I knew that.

Before she disappeared, I knew.

After she disappeared, some part of me still knew.

Why didn't I just believe myself?

-Julia