Sunday, March 16, 2014

March 10, 2014 my beautiful, loyal, halloween spooky black cat died

I came home, and I found him upstairs panting and crying for me. He couldn't walk ten steps before he collapsed. Less than three hours later, he died in my arms.

People keep asking me how I'm doing. I loved him. To be honest, I probably loved that little furry black cat more than I've ever loved anything or anyone, except my daughter. He never judged me, never hurt me, never made fun of me when I made mistakes.

How in the fuck do people think I'm doing? I'm not dead. To be honest, I'm not dead, because I don't want anyone else to feel the way I feel right now. I go back and forth between feeling completely empty, as though I just don't give a shit about anything at all. There is no point to being alive, not really. There's that, or to being absolutely furious, that he's gone. Because it isn't fair. He was the only thing I had, and he's gone. He loved me. And he's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it.

So the fact that I can't come up with anything constructive to talk about, or being positive, or looking ahead. You now what? Go fuck yourselves.

How many times have I propped people up, when they were this down, and I sure as shit didn't tell any of you that I had better things to do with my day that listen to you whine about how they feel, or how they didn't feel anything at all.

And there's the rage. 

So you want to know how I'm doing without him? That's how I'm doing. He's gone. I have to cope with it. But right now, the best I can do is not die, and not try to damage anyone else. I find it fucked up that the people who once knew me best, understood me best, could have understand that.

I'm already hurt and broken. Trust me, for all of the people who wanted me to suffer? You all got your wish. You wanted revenge? There you go. Congratulations. You won. You broke me.