10-Second Anecdotes that Reveal Too Much About Me: Natasha

A little (too much) about me, based on Karishma’s awesome post.

Read More 10-Second Anecdotes that Reveal Too Much About Me: Natasha

10-Second Anecdotes That Reveal Too Much About Me: Alyson

Here at Persephone, we know what the reader wants. Everyone wants more embarrassing and funny facts about the writers. At least, that’s what I want to know! Thanks to Karishma for starting a trend. Read More 10-Second Anecdotes That Reveal Too Much About Me: Alyson

10-Second Anecdotes that Reveal Too Much About Me

Two years ago, I was in a grad class about families as educators, something I may have mentioned before. A significant part of the class dealt with memory and how memories shape us. As a thought experiment, I picked out specific memories that provide insight into my personality.   Read More 10-Second Anecdotes that Reveal Too Much About Me

A Not-So-Sweet Saturday Afternoon with Sweet Cherry Pie

It’s cherry season in my part of the world, which means, much like rhubarb season, that it’s time to make lots of delicious pie. It’s also about that time when the novelty of summer wears off, and the prospect of many long, hot, humid days ahead is enough to make you want to hide in an air conditioned room for a week. Read More A Not-So-Sweet Saturday Afternoon with Sweet Cherry Pie

How To Survive Falling

A few years back, while visiting my brother-in-law’s family in Morocco, I found myself atop a large waterfall. Azilal Falls to be more precise, the biggest in the country. One of his brothers who I didn’t know very well, but was trying desperately to impress (the man looked like a young Arab George Clooney), asked if I wanted to look out over the ledge. He said that he would hold me as I leaned out over the cliff side. I sidestepped the barrier and met him on the cliff’s edge. He wrapped his arms around my waist and, in a move of grand stupidity, I leaned out over the edge. Read More How To Survive Falling

I’m a cat, I’m a kitty cat and I’m depressed, depressed, depressed

LinusSo, you know how sometimes dogs can sniff out cancer?  Or how your cat will come sit by you when you’re feeling sad?  I think it’s scientifically proven, although I am too lazy to look it up, that animals sense your emotions.  If it’s not scientific there are plenty of anecdotes, and that’s good enough for me. Well, I think I gave my cat depression.  Linus was always a little more of a nervous cat.  He hides when people are over.  But, in the last 6 months, when I’ve been in the throes of this most recent bout of depression, Linus has become even more reclusive than usual.  He hides under the covers or under the bed all day, only coming out to eat wet food and then retreating immediately to the Cat Cave.  By comparison, I hide in a blanket on the couch all day, emerging only to eat ice cream and then retreating for a nap.  If Linus and I could curl up in the bed all day together, napping and eating wet food in bed, we would both be pretty content.

Now, I have no evidence that I actually gave Linus my depression, but he has become my anthropomorphic depression.  I am Jack’s depressed cat.  I realized how protective I was of Linus’s depression when Mr. Furious finally got fed up that Linus pees sometimes in the bedroom.  Because really, who can be bothered to go to the bathroom? Not me. I’d be lying if I said that adult diapers haven’t had their appeal at various low points in my life.  Mr. Furious suggested sequestering Linus in the bathroom, a technique that worked when we got a kitten a couple years ago.  The thought of Linus crying and pawing at the bathroom door just broke my heart.  “He’s fine in the bedroom,” I pleaded.  “He just wants to cuddle up with his mama. There’s nothing wrong with that.”  Mr. Furious didn’t understand my reluctance to help Linus.  “He wants to get better,” he said.

But. It’s hard.  And that’s when I realized that my fear for Linus working on his behavior, is really just my fear of working out of my own depression.  For both me and Linus, that bed is safe.  We don’t have to do anything scary or hard.  And someone is always going to bring us wet food.

This is quite possibly the saddest thing ever, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Because as I’m working on Linus’s depression, I’m really working on my own.  And pretty soon we’ll both be chasing the laser around like we like to do. Or something.