June 19th 2017

Meltdown lycanthropy. in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

•  June 19, 2017, 8:14 p.m.
 
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• Public

I know how a werewolf would feel. The loss of control. The need to destroy. The sense of being in your body, but more as an observer than being at the helm. You can push the wheel one way or the other, just a little; just enough to pick where the destruction takes place, what it’s aimed at, but that’s about it. And heaven help anybody that gets in your face, even to be compassionate; because that tiny bit of control will disappear under the least bit of influence.

For the last three or four days I’ve been battling fleas. And because I had a cat die from the earliest version of spot-on (Advantage, and it’s ilk) years ago, I WILL NOT use it.

So I have a dog going out and coming in, several times a day, and getting a Dawn dish soap flea bath, at fifteen minutes of sitting and keeping her from shaking it all off, a pop. That’s an hour plus soaping time for four potty breaks. Then I have eight cats. I’ve been alternating, bathing four a day. Then I have a three bedroom house, plus finished attic, with cats in every room at least part of the time; so I’ve been spraying the house.

And my art is suffering. And my poor hair, all three feet of it, down past my ass, is suffering. And my friend in Australia, waiting for a message, is suffering. And the Male, who makes dinner every night, is suffering. (Because I get done eating and immediately need his assistance washing cats instead of doing ahem anything else.)

So about an hour ago, I was washing the dog, and she decided she’d had about enough of sitting still, covered in soap, and took off to the kitchen, where her crate is. About half way through the dining room she started shaking the water off.

And I broke. I started yelling, “bad dog! Bad dog! Stupid dog! Bad! Bad! Bad! And when I caught up to her she went into her crate, because that’s generally where I have her go if she does something to get yelled at, like pooping on the floor, for instance; (which she hasn’t done in months, but I digress). And I have enough self control not to beat her, so I grab the broom and start smacking the wall with it, yelling “Fucking dog! Fucking! Fucking! Fucking dog! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

After a while of that, I tried going to my art room, but the need to destroy wasn’t spent, and as I opened the door, I bend my head down and slammed the door into the top of my skull several times. At this point the Male yelled, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” I said “Maybe!”.

So then I went to my bedroom, (a different room, at the furthest end of the house), and I picked the corner farthest from his room, indeed the very corner of the house itself, and sat on the floor. Somewhere along the way I’d picked up a steak knife. I couldn’t remember getting it, but it was in my hand, and I was was just pushing the serrated edge into my wrist, like I’d done more than a dozen times when I was younger; back when I’d been misdiagnosed as bipolar and thought I was “depressed”. The serrated blade felt good pushed against my skin. No exaggeration. The pain of all of those tiny teeth just threatening to break the skin felt really, really, good. Like if I sawed my arm open with it, it would be like opening a window on a smoke filled room, and I’d get good breath of fresh air from the wound. But I had enough control to know that noticeable self harm could get me put in a psych ward when I go to see my therapist, so I didn’t do that. I sat in that corner, wedged between the trashcan and the closet, with my Halloween scarecrow looming over me, (because he lives in that corner most of the year), and hit my head against the wall. A lot. I put the knife to my left ankle and sawed there a little.

There was a big piece of cardboard that I’d sat in that corner to help block the view of a litter box, and I held that, and started cutting irregular holes in it with the knife. That destructive energy has to go somewhere. So I beat my head, noting that the pain felt good; and turned that piece of cardboard into a something resembling a fine cardboard mesh of oval-shaped shaped holes. - That was the Best that I could do; to avoid what I really, truly, wanted to do: cut myself full of holes and kick holes in the wall. I could think. I observed myself clenching my teeth, gripping that knife for dear life, focusing on the pain at the back of my skull as if my life depended on beating on the wall until it broke. Whenever I stopped to turn the cardboard, my hands were posed like claws; like some cartoon villain. I could feel my eyes wide, as if I were in stark terror. Things had to be broken. The energy must be expended. Period.

I can see some homeless person, in medieval times, living in the woods, having a meltdown and literally ripping some well meaning passerby apart. If I were a burly guy, and someone got in my face just then, I could absolutely rip someone’s throat out with my teeth. - So I think I can safely say that I sympathize with the original, feral, people upon whom those legends are built. - Or at least it’s possible.

After about 45 minutes of that, I suddenly gasped and draw a deep breath, and I felt better, and that was that. Like coming out from under water. I still feel strange though. Have you ever been in a car accident? You know that weird, “holy crap what just happened?”, sort of feeling you get, after the rush of the crash? Yeah. It’s like that.

And now I’m hungry because it’s past dinner time. To the Male’s credit, he’s left me alone. I should tell him it’s over so we can eat.