“Speak to yourself like you speak to someone you love.”
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Simbarella.
I am now owned by a tortoiseshell cat. My life is no longer mine. I am obliged to serve this creature for as long as she lives.
In all seriousness though, Simbarella had been tugging at my heartstrings long before she became my housemate. I’d seen her in a nearby house in the same compound I live in. She’d pick one spot and sit unmoving, making herself as small as possible.
First day I saw her, I thought, “Ohhh, kitten! I haven’t seen this one before. It probably knows what it’s doing.”
Second day I saw her, I thought, “Something isn’t right.” It was the way she chose the same exact spot, instead of exploring the entire compound like all the other stray cats do, and there are at least three of them in the area. One of them saw her and froze. She froze too. There was some kind of stand-off between them. There was some hissing. Eventually both went away.
Third day I saw her, I thought, “I absolutely can’t ignore this one.” I went up to her expecting her to run away. She didn’t. I petted her. She purred. So I took the risk of picking her up. I was expecting scratches. None came. But she did get uncomfortable and jumped out of my arms. I laughed. I figured she had my scent now. She’d seen there are other places around other than her one spot. So I went about my business (it was laundry day) and waited. I hoped she would get a bit bolder and explore the compound.
Eventually, she came back to my door. I was delighted. I had nothing to give her other than a tiny bit of milk, which I gave her on a small plastic plate outside my door. Eventually, she ventured into my house. She got comfortable little by little. By the time I closed the door with us inside, she was purring like crazy. She got on my lap and didn’t want to move. Honestly, I didn’t want to move either.
But my heart just kept breaking and breaking
Simbarella (Simba + Cinderella, in case it wasn’t clear) was just skin and bones. Her purrs vibrated through her so much that I got genuinely worried if she was sick or hurt. I could see no physical injuries except a scar or two, healed over. And the way she wanted all the cuddles and all the attention… the way she got startled by the sound of raindrops… the way she would “scout” the house, climb on my shoulders, get on higher ground before approaching her food bowl… It just felt too familiar to me.
Plus, she was (still is) so, so small, but she came potty-trained. She ate solid food with such an appetite. So she was definitely much older than her size. That was too familiar as well.
I’m guessing she was the runt of her litter, and I suspect that her mother was the one I wrote about before. I could be totally wrong though.
I might be at risk of anthropowhatchamacallit, giving an animal human qualities. Maybe I’m projecting onto a cat. But I won’t start ignoring my intuition now, not after all this time.
This cat reminded me too much about myself. I think she was just about ready to die. I think she picked a spot outside the biggest house she could find. Maybe her cat logic told her that the bigger the house, the higher the odds that there’d be lots of humans around, and the higher the odds that one of those humans may see her and help. But she was sitting outside the wrong house. If she’d picked my house, tiny as it is, she’d have found shelter much, much sooner.
How I treat Simbarella versus how I treat myself
This brings me to the title of this entry. Those words just showed up on my Facebook newsfeed several weeks ago:
Speak to yourself like you speak to someone you love.
Self-talk isn’t a new thing, really. We all do it. It’s how we psyche ourselves up or calm ourselves down. There’s a lot of focus on negative self-talk though. Most advice says, “Oh, be aware of it, distract yourself from it, or challenge it.” Easier said.
The “someone you love” part is what struck me. I’m more at ease with giving love than receiving it (I know, I’m working on it). But this usually means giving love to others, to outsiders, rarely to myself. Simbarella brought this very much into focus.
I would never call her dumb or stupid
Since my name is Kawira, I find myself calling Simbarella by other names, like Kameowza, Kabiscuit, Kasweetheart. She’s being very sweet right now because she’s cautious about her new home. But she’s not perfect. She’s gone potty on my bed once. She’s learning to get into the sink. She’s yet to figure out that she’s safe enough to eat her food, I won’t fight her for it. She’s yet to fully grasp that she’s okay here with me, that in my house there’s no sudden rain, no strange, angry cats or humans that chase her off. It will take time.
But until then, I could never go off on her for anything. She’s a cat, FFS. She has her reasons for doing what she does. And we’ll adjust to each other with time. That’s all we both need, time.
Do I ever tell myself the same thing, that all I need is time to grow and recover and thrive? Never once. I say to myself, “We’ve lost so much time, wasted so much time, when will we ever catch up?” I say to myself, “Maybe I’m cursed.”
I’m never sad to see her
I’m guessing Simbarella has some kind of attachment anxiety, some kind of fear of abandonment. She’s starving for affection. She complains so much sometimes that I can’t figure it out. I mean, she’s eaten, quite well at that. She’s not sick. Why is she cranky? And then it hits me that while she’s meowing her little heart out, she’s looking at my hands the whole time. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, it’s my hands she wants.
So I go to her, or she comes to me, and she gets ALL THE PETS. And then she’s purring like crazy and curling up in my lap and asleep in no time.
If I go to bed, she’ll climb her way to me. If I go to the bathroom, she’ll watch me from my tiny slice of a countertop. When I’m typing, she will squeeze herself in the gap between my body and the keyboard. But I never once think she’s a nuisance. She’s needy and she has her reasons. I can’t imagine being so underfed and terrified and out in the elements. It’s almost like she was marked as a reject. No other cats would even come close to her except to chase her away.
So, obviously, if she finds warmth and love she’ll want it all. I’m honored to give it all. Do I think the same way of myself? Not even remotely. I don’t like to see myself in the mirror. I hate attention. I constantly imagine that I’m a burden to everyone, which is part of the reason why I’m so independent. If anyone showed me as much love as I’m showing Simbarella, I’d be suspicious first. The happiness would take a while to get to me. Gods forbid that I outrightly say to someone, anyone at all, “I need you.”
I would never think of her as nothing but a cat
Simbarella is not my baby. She’s not a child. She’s not human. I’m not a “cat mom”. And that’s okay.
Of course, I worried about her food, especially because our meeting was so sudden. I would absolutely not buy cat food from a store, partly because of budget, partly because there’s no canned cat food in the wild. She’s survived this long on her own, so she can tell what’s good for her and what’s not. She could also get a bit greedy because of being so hungry for so long, so portioning is important, especially because she’s not used to a steady diet. I got her some omena, which is readily available, for cheap, and packed with proteins, which is what Simbarella needs for now. I’m in charge of her wellbeing. Not as I would of a child, but of a cat.
There’s a significant difference. I won’t baby a cat. I’ll respect her nature. I’ll treat her like she was from a foreign country with completely different customs and languages. I will observe her and listen to her and learn as we go. I will try to get her something to play with, so she won’t lose her hunting skills. I’ll keep her litter box clean because that’s the only piece of ground she has to work with, not the entire compound outside. It’s my form of respect for her. I can only hope that she’ll understand on some level that I’m also not a cat. But I’m nicer than all the cats that ran her off. That’s more than enough for me.
Do I think of myself the same way? You guessed it, nope. I often don’t feel fully human. I feel so strange because of how I think, how I experience the world. I started this blog by declaring that I’m a misfit and I like it. But my self-talk is still loaded with anxiety. I question everything — my decisions, my past, my future, my work. I must kick all the proverbial tires. I could definitely be a lot more comfortable with myself. I don’t know how long that will take. Just the thought is amazing to me, to say to myself, “I’m enough,” and actually believe it.
I should love myself way, way more
I could go on and on. Compared to how I’ve treated this cat over the last couple of days, I treat myself horribly.
It’s not really about catching the negative thoughts or talking them out or anything like that. It’s about looking at myself from an angle I’ve never tried before. An angle that includes kindness and generosity toward myself for a change. It would be a big step beyond survival-mode, which is where I still am. I can only hope that Simbarella will be with me long enough to teach me this lesson.
