Goodbye to Tyler

Carly's cat, Tyler, died last week. It was 15 years ago that Santa brought him as an orange and white fuzzball kitten to an equally orange and white fuzzball of a 5 year old girl. He came into our lives full of wonder, mischief and love. He left us richer, wiser, more capable of kindness, much like a cat kind of Pope or Buddha.

As a kitten, he was the Baby Jesus, wrapped in Carly's blanket as she adoringly gazed at him as she played a very convincing Holy Mother. He tried "rail-climbing" from the second floor only to prove to us that cats don't always land on their feet. He preferred his water from the bathroom sink, and he really liked for Calvin and Hobbes (his younger cat brothers) to be vanquished to the basement at bedtime, leaving him to rule the roost on the first and second floors. He adored Carly, begging for entrance into the magical world that existed only in her room.

As we both got older, Tyler and I stayed up waiting for the kids to come home, missing them while they were gone. We ate breakfast and read the paper together each morning. He waiting outside of my shower to lick the water from the shower door. I faithfully fed him, scooped his poop, brushed him. I watched him become a ferocious tiger as I took him to the vet, enduring the humiliation of having the vet tech write AGGRESSIVE on his chart. As hard as it is for me to admit it, leaving Tyler behind was one of the hardest parts of leaving my marriage.

I used to wonder why I would invite something into our lives that we loved so much knowing that it would die without making a significant contribution to the family. Tyler never paid a bill, made a bed, for that matter, he never even caught a mouse.

What Tyler did do was far more important. He listened to Carly when no one else would or could. He loved her unconditionally, forgave her mean words or absence. He would flatten his body next to hers with his paws around her like a toddler's. He kept her secrets. He licked her tears. He was a constant in a little girl's life that changed frequently, sometimes frighteningly. He taught her to see the world outside of herself, to care for those who could not care for themselves.

In the last couple of years, Carly has grown up. I guess she's had to. Perhaps it was time for it to happen, even if I had been able to stay with her dad. I'm not sure. I know there are times when I wish that I could hold her in my lap, wash a skinned knee, smell the back of her little sweaty neck just one more time. Just like the Holy Mother though, I get to hold all of these close to my heart, remember when she was both a kitten and a tiger. And I will never think of that little girl without remembering Tyler.

A Walk with Grace

Grace and I walk a lot, in all kinds of weather, three times a day. Some people would even say we're a bit compulsive with our walking. I like to think that we're purposeful.

My purpose is to use one of my "coping strategies" to fight the daily voice of anorexia. Walking fits right in there with: prozac, therapy, journaling, eating and sleeping. I also find the physical act of putting one foot in front of the other profoundly life-changing, both metaphorically and literally. Finally, I offer up our walks as a prayer, a prayer of thanksgiving for this moment.

Grace's purpose is little less "heady" but no less important or profound. Grace wants to smell gross stuff and, even better than smelling, she is in search of sticks. Sometimes she finds her stick in the first few moments of our walk. Other times it is nearing the end. Occasionally she finds small, chewy sticks that she chews up with immediate satisfaction. Some days she brings back sticks that need to come in the house; sticks that must be contemplated and chewed at length. Every now and then her stick is so heavy that she looks to me for help in carrying it. . . especially if she has other needs to attend to, mainly sniffing out the perfect spot to poop.

Grace's deep interest in sticks reminds me of my own search for recovery. (At this stage, maybe everything reminds me of recovery!) Anyway, every morning I begin my search again. Sometimes that particular step in recovery brings immeditiate satisfaction. Other times I need to take my time and think it through. Often, when other things need my attention (not particularly pooping) like my kids or my work there are people around me that help to "carry" my recovery.

I guess my point is that Grace and I both keep looking, with expectancy and hope. We take the walks as they come; some are easier than others. But, the walks are lnice, with a companion who adores you. And we're both buying into each other's beliefs. I firmly know in my heart that a dog can never experience too many sticks, and Grace is equally convinced that I can never be too recovered.

It's time to walk. . . .

Just a Regular Wednesday, I Suppose

I just finished folding some clothes, carrying glasses back to the kitchen, pilfering and plundering, my grandmother used to say. It's just a regular Wednesday, I suppose.

I did hear that my lawyer sent Jeff's attorney a letter about his late tuition payment. I'm hoping that will take care of things, but I guess really I'm just waiting for the sh-- to hit the fan. I do feel as if I am in a semi-good place with Sam, although that can fall apart in a heartbeat. I'm feeling pretty good about Carly and Will. Of course, I'm so angry with Jeff that I would like to shake him, and then, that makes me even angrier because I know that he would not even react to that.

Yesterday, during my therapy session with Erika all I did was rant and rave about Jeff. I told her the session was for dealing with the eating disorder, not ragging on Jeff. She disagreed. She thinks that allowing myself to rant and rave is a way of managing my disorder. If I'm talking, I'm not cutting or restricting. Who knows.

I did get to the chiropracter for my neck today. I think it might already feel a bit better. The temperature has dropped drastically and the wind is blowing. Grace is chewing on everything. I've talked with the kids and Mom. So, I guess it's just a regular Wednesday.

Sunday Evening Blues

Even when I was young, Sunday evenings always seemed a little sad to me. I never really understood why. . . I guess the weekend has past and the gearing up for a new week takes a little extra energy. I think that's especially true for me in the winter.



Last year, I opted out of the month of December by going to treatment in Coconut Creek, Florida. Most of the days there were in the 80s with lots of sunshine. It was easy to forget that it was Christmastime. I wonder if that's why most treatment centers are where it's warm?



Anyway, tonight I feel a little blue-er than normal for a Sunday evening. Carly came home again for the weekend, and I know that Monday morning brings a phone call back to my attorney to sort out Carly's tuition. I know that I need to finalize the kids' health insurance. I know I need to make an appointment for the chiropractor. Monday's tend to start with lists and errands, both of which I hate.



Still, tonight is even different from all of that. I think I'm tired from e.d. tonight. I do well for several weeks, then I just get tired of fighting it. The voice that says I'm too fat, that I'm being selfish taking good care of myself, that I'm spending too much time and money on therapy, is always near, or so it seems. I heard through the grapevine that four friends from Renfrew have relapsed. Two are hospitalized and two are back in treatment. Sometimes I wonder if I'm kidding myself into thinking that complete recovery is possible. Will I ever be recovered or will I forever be in recovery? Sounds like purgatory. But I guess even purgatory is better than hell.