Selina

While reading “Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched The World,” I started to remember my cat: the dear, departed Selina. And I thought it was time I wrote about her.

I begged for cats, when I was little. I love them now, and I did then. I was fairly young, so I don’t remember much about them coming into our house. But I do remember how her name came to be.

“Selina” was a name I’d chosen for myself, when I pretended to be a superhero. I would swish around in a cape and pretend to save the world from evildoers. So when I decided to name the tiny, black, scaredy-kitten “Selina,” I was giving her something very precious to me. I was showing her I loved her.

I didn’t expect her to be a superhero, and she wasn’t. She would bolt from the room if she was startled, either by an unexpected sound, or by someone walking toward her too fast. Her eyes were almost open as wide as they would go, and she almost always looked like she was getting ready to run if need be.

And I loved her for it.

My favorite thing to do with her was put her in my lap and rub her stomach. This was because, when I did that, she
would start licking the hand that petted her. Like all cats, she had a rough, sandpaper tongue. If I petted her for too long, she would lick my arm until it was almost raw.

With Selina, I learned caution, how to approach without spooking someone. How to show I have peaceful intentions.
This skill, when I remember to apply it, serves me extremely well. Some humans are just as afraid as she was, and I treat them with the same respect and care my cat taught me.

You’re probably not supposed to pick favorites among your cats, but I think she was always my favorite. The entire family loved her. She was sweet, she rarely fought, and she never caused us any real problems, unlike the other cat we adopted along with her, Kathleen. (I still love her, but man, she can be a pain in the butt sometimes.) I think I only heard Selina hiss once.

But a few years ago, something went wrong. There was blood on some papers, and we figured out it was coming from her. At first, we thought the blood was coming from her rear end.

But when we got to the vet, it turned out it was just her paw. We all breathed a sigh of relief, because there turned out to be nothing wrong.

Yet.

The wound on her paw never healed. Most of the things the vet told us were kind of a blur, but I remember it having something to do with her kidneys not working right. All I knew was that my baby, my Selina, was sick and I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid for her. I didn’t want her to die.

And she didn’t. She ended up getting better. She came home with us, and I was so grateful she was okay. Things calmed down for little while.

Then one day, she shot out of the litterbox screaming and yowling. That wasn’t like Selina. She didn’t sound like that. It was clear she was in a lot of pain.

It turns out, her kidneys had shut down completely. She wouldn’t be able to heal anything anymore. But she was hurting. Hurting so badly. And she wasn’t going to get better.

So we decided it would be kinder to put her down, so she wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

I remember the drive to the vet’s, somber and sad. I remember them giving her two shots. I think the first was to sedate her, and the second was the euthanasia.

I knew she was gone long before the vet told us she was. There’s a stillness that only the dead have. I knew my Selina, and she wasn’t there anymore.

The vet left us to mourn. We all cried, and hugged each other, and I petted her for the last time. Strangely, she still felt warm. But she was still gone.

I cried, and I felt my heart breaking. My baby, my Selina, my favorite, my kitty, was gone.

She was cremated, and we keep her ashes on a shelf. The veterinarian gave us a picture to keep. We mourned.

I still miss her. I think I always will. In fact, even as I type, I am crying.

I don’t know what grief is like for other people, but mine never goes away. I can go without thinking about for awhile, but when I do remember, it always hurts. I was hoping that maybe writing this would ease the pain a little. I don’t know if it will or not, but it’s worth a try.

Some people don’t seem to understand that Selina wasn’t just a cat to me. I bonded with her more strongly than I have with a human. Maybe it’s because I understood her, maybe it’s because I didn’t hold back any love since I knew she’d never hurt me, maybe that’s just how I am with animals.

But when I think of her, I always call her “my baby”. I’m not a mother, and I don’t ever intend to be. So I don’t know what a bond is like with a mother and her child, and I probably never will. It’s probably not comparable.

But I loved her. And I think she loved me too. And I miss her so badly, that when I remember it, I don’t just cry. I wail, and sob, and wonder if I’ll ever be free of this awful pain.

But even if I’m not, I would still do it all over again. I have so many happy memories of her that I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

I just wished she could have stayed with us a little longer. She was only nine when she died.

The best I can do is hope that if there is an afterlife, she’s happy there.

Rest in peace, Selina.

I'll always remember you, baby.

Stop asking already

Sometimes, when people see me knitting, they say: "Wow, that's really cool! Can you make me one? I can pay you for it!"

No, actually, you can't, unless you're rich or willing to save up a lot.

Take the sweater I'm currently making for instance. Now, I'm just going to say it will probably take me a month (which is actually pretty fast) or about 30 days to finish, working 4 hours a day on it. That's 120 hours.

Now lets say I got paid $10/hour. That's $1,200.

Then add the cost of the yarn. Each ball was about $8. (And that's pretty cheap for yarn.) I'm probably going to end up using about 6 balls. That's $48 dollars.

So, at a bare minimum, this would cost about $1,248.

So even paying me $600 for a sweater would be completely ripping me off. That's about half of what it's worth.

Very few people are willing to pay that much for clothes.

And then there's the fact that even making 10 sweaters a year (which is probably not possible) would only give me about 12,480. That's not even close to enough to live off of.

So, yeah. There's a reason I don't have a business around it. Few people could afford it, and all I'd get would be pocket change. After hours and hours of hard work.

As much as I love to knit, it's not worth it.

This is also why I don't usually knit gifts for people. Few people appreciate that what I've given them is probably worth far more than anything I could buy.

So, kids, the moral of this story is: do the freaking math.

Yes, this is what my brain is like.

Weird thoughts I've had lately:

-Could diet and exercise end the recession?

My teacher posited: Heart disease can usually be treated efficiently by diet and exercise. Heart disease is really expensive, so stopping it would dramatically lower the cost of healthcare.

Reasoning: Heart disease is the number one killer in the U.S. Heart disease is usually caused by atherosclerosis. The risk of atherosclerosis can be reduced by about 50% by eating cold water fish. Exercise can help reduce the plaque already there

My leap of logic: would lowering the cost of healthcare be enough to end the recession in some way?

If anyone finds out it could and writes a best-seller about it, you owe me a percentage!


-Good idea for a store: custom-made shoes; or having shoes not sold in pairs.

Reasoning: my feet don't match. I think my right is about a half-size bigger than my left. I can usually have my feet fit in a same-size pair, but it's annoying. And buying two pairs of shoes, a half-side apart, seems rather silly. As does wearing different socks. So, shoes that are custom-made; or that I can buy one in one size and one in the other, would be really nice.

If anyone knows of a store like this, give me their website. If there isn't one, and someone uses this idea, you owe me a percentage, dammit!

For now, I guess I'll just go with different thickness of socks. *shrug*

It was that kind of day.

Yesterday, I was talking to a cashier about how I'm allergic to everything except surgical steel (because when I'm nervous, I have no control over my mouth). He pointed to something near my face and asked "and those are...?"

I assumed he was talking about my earrings, so I swept my hair back from in front of my ears and said "surgical steel."

Later, on the bus home, I realized I wasn't wearing earrings. I guess he had been talking about my glasses. I thought I had out them on, and I didn't realize I wasn't wearing them.

I am now grateful that the same scenario didn't happen with my pants instead of my earrings.

This started as a journal entry

Journal 4-17-12

Typing the way I’m supposed to is a pain. But I think it’ll pay off later. I hope it will.

Seriously considering writing a book. Now isn’t really the time for it though.

Sigh. I can’t do shit while I’m in A&P II. It’s too intense of a class.

I think I should keep writing a journal, though. It’s good for me.

Surprisingly, my fingers seem to know how to type already. It’s like I memorized the keyboard after all. I’m not sure when. But trusting my muscle memory is getting me farther than I thought it would.

Maybe that’s my real problem. I have no trust. Well, that’s not really a secret or a big epiphany. I worry about everything. Try to have everything under control. But life doesn’t work like that.

I’m just always so damn scared of everything… A lifetime of being an outcast, and being labeled “disabled” kind of shot my confidence. It’s growing back, but it’s slow.

Maybe, once a day, I should try taking a small risk and trusting myself to get it right.

The truth is, not everything is controllable. Or predictable, for that matter. Sometimes, there are too many variables to figure out how they will all interact to form an outcome.

If I really want to know who I am, I have to start trusting myself.

Why did I ever stop writing journals? Why did I ever stop writing, period?

I think because I lost faith. I lost faith in myself and that made me lose faith in my writing.

Maybe it’s not too crazy to think I might change the world someday. Maybe it’s not crazy to think I can do so by writing. Who knows?

I’ve been trying to make myself invulnerable. I thought I could do it through knowledge. Or by being tough. Or threatening. But the truth is, I’m not very intimidating at all.

I’ve been trying to hide how vulnerable I feel from even myself. Or at least, when I know I have to deal with people, I put it on. But I have so little downtime in between interactions, I keep it on.

“You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it.” That’s true.

It’s all part of being human. When you choose fight instead of freeze or flight, fear turns to anger. Human beings are hardwired that way. But you’re supposed to be able to admit to yourself that you’re scared. You might not want to admit it to others, since an enemy would view it as a weakness, but you’re supposed to admit it to yourself.

And the truth is, I am scared of people. I’ve had people treat me like dirt before, and it hurts. A lot. Especially when it comes from people who are supposed to be your family.

Thanks a lot, Donna Kisling. And you too, Jon Gribskov. Or should I call you “Dad”? No, you never acted like one, so I won’t call you that. I hope you can hear me from beyond the grave. You were a crappy father, and I meant everything I said to you, when I finally got sick of being treated like a doormat. I’m not letting people like you wipe your shoes on me anymore.

Oh, and let’s not forget all my wonderful classmates from Eastgate Elementary, Tillicum Middle School, and Newport High School. Oh, and the staff at Tillicum Middle School and Newport High School deserve mention too! The administration of both basically sided with my peers in labeling me a freak and proceeding to blame everything you possibly could on me. Fuck you!

Thank God some of the teachers were nice to me. Mr. Stoddard was pretty awesome- he actually seemed to kind of get what I was going through.

But all the rest of them? Shame on you.

What the hell is wrong with you, treating a kid like that? Couldn’t you see I was having problems? And that what you were doing was making it worse?

And it was because of all of you lovely people that I never realized that the rest of the world wasn’t like that. That some people actually have some good in them.

And how would I have known? Everywhere I looked, it seemed, people were treating me like some insect they had to deal with buzzing around their head. And generally just being dipshits.

The only people in my life who have stuck by me, and treated me the way I deserve, are my family. Not the Gribskovs, you guys can kiss my ass. I mean the Kasmars. My mother, Nancy, and my real father, the one who actually acted like one, Ken. And my grandparents, Rosemary, Cliff, and Bob.

And my "chosen family": Leah, Eda, Patricia, Max. My awesome friends.

Anyways, it’s about time I stopped punishing my family, and myself, for the way those people have treated me. I’ve always been afraid to show love to people in case it got thrown back in my face, like it has been before.

But you know what? I’m done. I’m sick of being afraid and hating myself and keeping secrets.

So, there it is. The truth.

Have a nice day.
--Ilsa

...wait, what?

Today, I was told about yet another self-help book with, surprise, a personality test attached. I took the test, looked up what it meant, found something that suited me as best I could figure.

But later, I started to get kind of pissed. Yes, the personality tests can sometimes help. Yes, to some degree people can be categorized effectively. Yes, that sometimes can mean some useful advice.

But I've taken probably dozens of personality tests by now, and I'm getting really sick of being shoved into a category. Being dissected and told "this is what you should do." Sometimes, that advice is useful. But for the most part, free advice seems to be worth the price you pay. 

I saw a cartoon once that said "there are only two kinds of people: those who make gross over-generalizations and those who don't." More and more, I'm starting to agree with it.

And really, I'm getting INCREDIBLY sick of people telling me what to do, especially when I don't ask for it. Everyone seems to have the answer to life. You just have to eat less, buy this book, accept Jesus as your savior, take this pill, etc.

How about you just let me figure it out myself?

My life is not your life. I have a different set of problems than you do. Frequently, you have no idea what my life has actually been like, or currently is like right now.

I hate to break it to you, but you DON'T have all the answers. Nobody does.

What I think, (I assume you want to know, since you're reading this) is that everyone has a little piece of the puzzle, which together connects into this backasswards thing we call life. Sometimes, the piece you have connects to the piece someone else has. And those are the people you can help, maybe. If they want it.

But my puzzle piece is very, very weird and convoluted. I haven't even really figured out what it is yet. But I'd kind of like to figure it out for myself.

Sure, I'm inexperienced. Sure, I make mistakes. Sure, sometimes following your advice would have helped.

But sometimes, I'm right.

So just let me try it myself, okay?

I know I have Asperger's, and because of that, I seem to miss things that seem obvious to you. But you miss things that are obvious to me, as well.

People don't realize it, but the truth is, the minute you say you have Asperger's Syndrome, or are Autistic, they listen to you less. When you're arguing with them, they are thinking "oh, they just don't know because of the Autism." Amd then we end up being right sometimes-- the truth is, we have about the same accuracy rate as Neurotypicals do, it's just not distributed the same way.

This thought process of "well, how would you know? You're autistic!" is EXTREMELY bad. That is NOT the right way to approach us AT ALL.

First of all, it's insulting. Second of all, it's actually discrimination. Yes, it really is. Discounting someone's opinion purely because of a diagnosis IS discrimination.

Here is how to approach this situation: try to have the Autistic person in question explain his or her reasoning. There is a chance there is something you missed. Or, if there is something he or she missed, explain what it is. If they don't believe you, then say "we'll see" and let it go. 

Really. Let it go. Holding a grudge is not going to be good for either of you down the road. Besides, it's not our fault, and you STILL could end up being wrong!

I will be the first to admit this is very, very hard. I am in a group with some other Aspies, some of whom have far less social graces than I do. 

Sometimes, it's all I can do not to leap out of my chair and strangle them to make them shut the hell up because they are being such a pain in the ass.

You know the definition of stress, right? "The overwhelming urge to choke the living shit out of someone who so richly deserves it"? 

Yeah. Join the club.

Instead, I content myself by imagining beating the crap out of them in creative ways. 

Possibly with a Rube Goldberg-type machine. 

Or something along the lines of the "Homer Humiliator" from The Simpsons. 

Or with Matrix-style Kung Fu.

*cough*

Hey, I never said I didn't have issues. 



So, remember kids, keep an open mind.