juushika

The other thing I did in 2022 (other than read game manuals, and consume good media, and also we bought a house) is that I followed through on the "as soon as I have a house, I'm getting a third cat" threat & got a kitten.

( The lead-up & adoption. )

( The first few weeks. )

Meanwhile, I named the kitten November, called Vivi.

( Here's Vivi's backstory )

So. I wanted a kitten to make the house feel alive, and certainly she did that! In a horrible, frenetic way, at first! I also wanted to be happier, and after those initial weeks, guess what: Vivi is perfect.

Despite the odds, she's just as her bio claimed. She gets along great with the other cats, and has impeccable cat manners despite occasional little-sibling behavior (is this annoying? is this annoying? when I poke your face, is that annoying?). August tolerates her with enthusiasm—August's special way of cohabitating, "I would be lonely without you, but please don't touch me". Toby is absolutely enriched by her—they're not best-friend snuggle-buddies, but they'll co-sleep and play and he bullies her just a little, but not too much.

But her truest joy is people. August is a die-hard lap cat, Toby apparently literally stops eating without cuddles, but Vivi is a monster for companionship. For a long time she only wanted to be held (head over the left shoulder) and would throw a hissyfit if put down; she now has expanded her repertoire to include laps (!) and various forms of co-sleeping. Every morning she wakes me by lying on my shoulder/neck for cuddles. She purrs for hours, hours; nothing about Vivi is an exaggeration: the sweetest, most loving cat I've ever met.

I don't like kittens because they look dumb & because even year-old cats are too much energy for me. But Vivi is a miracle. Her play is enthusiastic but ridiculously low-effort, much of it self-directed. She never went through asshole phases.

Also, she's about 8 months now and still so tiny. 6.5-7 pounds? She makes kittenish meep-meep sounds instead of meowing (she can meow! it's tiny, too. she only does it while playing) and a lot of her other vocalizations are small, like soundless chattering. It's possible her voice could change, and she'll certainly continue to fill out into an adult. But she's my only kitten and feels very much like a perma-kitten; a kitten with all the good and none of the bad parts of a kitten: tiny, very silly, curious and joyful, unbearably sweet, so cute it physically hurts my body.

Devon loves her—the other cats are mine but Vivi feels more like ours, like she wouldn't chose favorites between us (except she would) (it would be me: I feed her).

I've lived in a four-cat household before, I've been effective-caretaker for three cats at once, but something about this combination—three cats, an aesthetically pleasing odd number, all black DMH which I find so, so beautiful; all so different despite this similarity, complete individuals, completely unique ... I'm over the moon; I love her and I love them and the house, which I also love, feels complete in a soul-satisfying way. Three is the perfect number.

Vivi wasn't a secret kitten on purpose. I just haven't wanted to talk to people—the move was a lot of work, aesthetic changes to the house consume a lot of my time ... but mostly it's that, after my sister died, I just didn't want to reach out to anyone. Vivi can't fix that; it's a huge burden for very small shoulders. Nonetheless she is a miracle. The mythologization of cat adoption stories truly happens after the fact: despite that it was a truly horribly time, she was the right cat. She's only been here five months, and already I couldn't imagine life without her.

Anyway, who cares! Kitten pictures, in approximately-chronological order. There would be more, but it turns out I'm in most of my Vivi pictures, as she prefers to be On Person at All Times. Images are labeled for my records, as temporary hosting will doubtless nuke them.



(november 001)


(november 002)

Those were the pics on her adoption listing!

( 11 pics below the cut. )

TW emetophobia, pet injury, cancer, death, suicidal ideation, fucking hell what a really optimistic opening to a post!!



A belated but sincere thanks to those that commented on my post about my father's cancer; that I haven't responded is just because talking (in general, but about that in specific) is hard, and not especially personally productive. But one-sided condolences are. Cancer has been the worst thing in my life for too many years now—

which is such a truism: cancer, this one equalizer, this pinnacle of disease; I've never read it and now you could not pay me to do so, but I always hear in my head "the emperor of maladies." Not because cancer is worse than other diseases, but because it's so prevalent and diverse and always life-changing. It killed the first pets I ever looked after on my own (rats); killed my grandmother, killed my family's dog, killed Mamakitty; changed my sister's life; and now this. It's so common as to be memetic, which rouses its own sort of anger as I transform into the person whose anxiety is triggered by "this post is giving me cancer" jokes

—so it helps to have it validated as being as awful as it feels. I mean, I know it's awful, insofar as I can internalize anything. But validation and confirmation helps, even (especially!) from halfway-strangers who have no reason to lie to me about how awful cancer is.



Cancer on the day-to-day is pretty unremarkable, though. Chemo is going; I'd hesitate to say "going well" because my dad doesn't cope well with discomfort and has always aggressively treated his health concerns, and now here's something effectively untreatable where discomfort is a baseline. ( Borderline navel-gazing re: chronic illness. )



We had a traditionally non-traditional family homemade pizza night for Thanksgiving; my uncle flew in for the weekend. And because literally nothing can go right, Devon got sick that evening with a stomach flu! and then I caught it a few days later, despite that we spent like four days in separate rooms with zero in-person contact and I was really lonely. Mine was comparably mild; either way I think we both prefer this to a chest or head cold. Throwing up sucks, rather a lot, but there's almost a sense of pleasurable privation to be limited to broth and eggs and crackers, and being able to breathe while sick makes it far easier to sleep it off.

Prior to that, Gillian had bitten his own damn self while going after a flea (and I knew cat mouths were full of nasty, but had somehow assumed that they were immune to their own nasty even though that makes very little sense; and indeed, I was hugely wrong because) and gave himself a huge abscess! which cleared up on its own, and in fact the vet didn't even treat it*, just the fleas (thank goodness, as Frontline/Advantage weren't working); so while the bald patch is now growing in beautifully and the fleas are almost dead and none of the cats are, my summary here is

could unrelated things stop being shit for, like, five minutes

we are all very tired, all the time.



* The vet ripped out mats and with it fur surrounding the wound, ripped off the scab that was forming, and said that because it was plenty open and the tissue looked healthy we could let Gillian look after it just like cats had been doing for thousands of years, not even an ecollar required. A vet after my own heart! as I am also of the school of "supervision is good but nature knows best for dumb stuff like this".

That massive depressive episode that began with my sister's cancer diagnosis finally died a lingering death (I gave up tracking its length by the end, it started in July 2014 and lasted until ~June 2015, so it was basically a year of my life), but a ~month later I had a resurgence of my normal month-long (I think, I hope, but I'm not measuring; I'm too tired for real records these days, I'm just trying to wait things out) episodes, so: I have been absent-ish from social spaces/friendships because I'm not feeling great; it's not a severe episode, but I was just beginning to feel hopeful about recovery when it began so it's bitter and gently spirit-crushing. You know, more than depressive episodes usually are.

- - - - -

May-June back pain episode did resolve a few days on Tramadol.

- - - - -

Dare is settling in well! When you adopt a pet, but especially a cat, you make an (informed, one hopes) gamble: they are their own people, so, while they do adapt, their underlying personality will shine through. We gambled well with Dare—her outgoing nature counterbalances her blindness, and makes her a good fit into the house's preexisting social structures. What amazes me most is how bright she is, how proactively engaged with her environment; she's more aware than anyone in the household, nevermind not having eyes.

- - - - -

Made a brief visit back home: my sister got a puppy, a Red Merle Australian Shepherd named Tiber who is currently 3 months old. She's still living at my family's home, so Jamie (who is now far into Old Lady territory) has to deal with him. He's ... well, he's a puppy, engaged and bright but overflowing with energy. They're doing pretty well by him training-wise; Jamie isn't pleased with the new dog.

Sometimes I want to give people a sign that says I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE DEPRESSED (slash ANXIOUS slash MENTALLY ILL) and then have them wave that around instead of talking.

This is directed at no one; it is a whispered response to a complete internet stranger that wasn't even talking to me. Just so as that you know.

I'm still not doing great. Two weeks ago my sister graduated from the University of Oregon, so I went for that—and Father's Day, as it was the same weekend; and attendant extended family (uncle and his family, grandfather with wife) activities. To my surprise I was happy for her almost entirely without jealousy/resentment (on account of my failed college experience), although graduation itself was mildly triggering. The whole weekend went fine and it was absolutely exhausting, in part because events like that always are, in part because of some specific circumstances, in part because I'm still just not doing well.

It's depression, mostly at this point. The back is still bad, more or less, but it's plateaued at this new level of always this bad and so I'm learning to live with it. That was hard to do over the graduation stuff, so I ended up trying two new happy pills. Verdicts: Vicodin (hydrocodone/paracetamol) was moderately effective but had more side effects, largely spaciness—intense, emotionally non-responsive spaciness. Neurontin (gabapentin) was extremely effective, rendering all my muscles (all of them! even my shoulders, which hold tension, not pain) into limp noodles and me likewise; I experienced some moderate unsteadiness but Devon, who would better know, says it did less to my cognition. Neither were as awesome as Tramadol, but 1) they were out of Tramadol and 2) much of my love of Tramadol stems from its side effects, which worries me. Would I take Neurontin again? Yes, but I'm not constantly thinking about how badly I want to take it again, which makes me think it's the better drug for me.

After graduation I stayed a few more days in Corvallis and just spent time with Devon, and they were good days, but the monotony of depression is a mire, it rises over anything good and renders the entire landscape a bland sort of miserable. It's been months of this now, it's dull and not worth recording, and I invite it to fuck off, please and thank you, at its earliest convenience. This time around it's killed my appetite, which is fantastic because I just didn't have enough food-related neuroses; but no one wants to hear about how hard it is to shower or do laundry, and I don't want to write about it.

Dee and Devon both have been angels, in their limited possible capacity—further "it's not you it's me." I could write about August but I don't know how to do her justice. No spoons these days, so evenings when she's whining for food can be torture, but when I got back after a week in Corvallis ... she always demands immediate snuggles, and we had that, but seeing her again also rekindled this love affair and we've been head over heels for each other since. She is my cat in this devastating, heartfelt way, and I have never known a creature so beautiful. That doesn't idealize her, and I don't think she's half the cat I was expecting when I adopted her, but even at her most annoying I would not change her for the world. Even when the intensity of this love fades down, again, to background noise, the truth of that will not alter.

And everyone should have an overenthusiastic wigglebutt of a puppy come to meet them at the train station.

It's not awful but it's not good either, these days, and at this point I'm just waiting them out, but I might as well mention that they exist and so, still, do I.

I'm headed home again tonight, for the last night of Hanukkah and to welcome my sister back from college for winter break. I lit the candles with my family last Friday as well, but this year, this will be our one and only night of Hanukkah with all four of us in the home.

I learned the other day, somewhat to my surprise, that my good friend aep didn't know that I was Jewish. I am indeed, in the most singular and cliche cultural form that you can possibly imagine. My paternal grandparents are both Jews hailing from New York (my great great [paternal paternal] grandfather was a furniture manufacturer, to be even more cliche; worse still, my grandparents retired to Florida and my grandfather lives there now), and I was raised as a cultural Jew. That is to say, I was taught Jewish stories and customs, but my grandmother was particularly agnostic and I never went to synagogue or had a bat mitzvah. I celebrated Passover with my grandparents each year, a tradition we no longer continue, and I still light the Hanukkah candles with my family every year. So while I'm the last thing from a devout Jew, and while you certainly can't see my heritage to look at me, Hanukkah is still rather important to me. We don't do much more than scrape the wax from the menorah, light the new candles, and put the menorah on the window sill, where its light shines down over the hill, over the city herself—it's no big ceremony, but I love it. We'll be having latka for dinner as well tonight.

A photo of the lit menorah on the windowsill, from my mother's arts blog.

ETA: Our menorah on the last night of Hanukkah, as well as the latka, again from my mom's blog.

(My mother's family is not-very-strictly Catholic, although she has always been spiritual/agnostic. I was raised agnostic, and along with celebrating Hanukkah, my family also celebrates Christmas, and we sometimes celebrate Kwanzaa with some family friends. I've been known to celebrate Yule, and to some extent still recognize the importance of the solstice. My papa's birthday falls right in the middle of it all—on the solstice, actually. As such, this entire season is important to us as a family, but tonight is the last night of Hanukkah, which is why I focus on it.)

My sister Allie started college at University of Washington in the fall, and this is her first visit home since then. Ironically, we keep in somewhat better touch now that I'm back home and she's away, but I've never been very good at keeping in touch. Still, rumor has that her first semester has gone quite well—she's adjusted to her (horrendously gigantic) school and even has a job up there, which is needless to say more than I've ever managed. She's taking the train down home, and I'm looking forward to seeing her. I hold such a sense of confidence in her now, a sense that I've never felt towards myself. I am the black sheep of the family, ricocheting between unstable extremes; she is a middle ground, so while she is by no means average or simple, she is balanced, she is capable.I'm older, I was a bright kid and a good student, and for a while I was the high standard to which she was compared. Now, I've dropped that standard, and she hasn't faltered. I feel a bit ashamed in the face of that, and yet proud at the same time. In her own way, in a way that I have never managed, she is brilliant.

It will be good to see her again, and good for her to be home. She deserves the break, after such a change and after college, of course. Plus, if nothing else, I know that Jamie—the family dog—will be excited to see her. She has three weeks here before she heads back north.

Elsewise, I've fallen into a brief hibernational rut. I do this often—not just during the winter, though it is hibernation all the same. I curl up in bed, and in between napping I find more things to do in bed. I don't leave unless I need to, and lately that's only been to pee and to see Devon in the evenings. Sometimes I just want the safety and immobility of my own little cocoon. It's not depression precisely, though it is I've no doubt related; it's more like quietude, a peaceful drowsiness. I've been entertaining myself with a lot of fic reading (from the hot recs over at daily_snitch, only a few of which have been any good...) and film watching (At World's End is as good as I remember and the DVD is great, but needs a director's commentary; The Polar Express is hideously bad; all the rest is old news and old DVDs), and I've made a new custom pony. I'll take pictures of her today (in just a few minutes, probably, before I nap) but I shant post them for a bit, because she's getting packed up and shipped off as a surprise gift for a surprise somebody. I'm pleased with how she turns out, and though the recipient doesn't much like snow, I hope she likes this pony. Another gift is going off today, fingers crossed and Devon willing, and those two alone is more than I expected to mail off already. I am horrendously unreliable, after all.

Now, to take photos, and then to sleep before I head to the house for sundown. I hope that all of you are well, and Happy Hanukkah to those that celebrate it.