It’s been quite a year. I don’t know about you, but 2013 was pretty extreme for me. On the positive side, I made some good friends, saw a few of my short stories get published in some great anthologies, wrote both a prequel and sequel to World-Mart, and joined the Horror Writers Association. On the not-so-positive, I endured the deaths of three very important people in my life and struggled to overcome the challenges related to some annoying and terrifying blind spots that had taken over about 10% of my left eye.
2013, despite the good that came with you, I’m glad to see you go. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out.
I really do have to say that this year has been by far the most trying I’ve ever survived—and that counts the nearly five years of physical and emotional abuse I suffered at the hands of a mentally ill ex and the eight months I spent bedridden with Lyme disease and Lyme-induced lupus. Still, I’ve learned a lot this year. I learned that I’m even stronger than I thought I was. I learned that sometimes you don’t get to forgive someone who’s hurt you on your own terms (because death strikes on its time, not ours). I learned that life and the connections we make are far more precious than I’d previously believed.
For those who don’t know me, thanks for reading. Some pretty personal stuff is coming, stuff that probably won’t interest you. It’d be pretty cool if you kept on reading, but I’m not going to hold you to it. For those who do know me, those who have some kind of emotional investment in who I am and where I’ve been, I thank you for your love and support. What follows is a doozy. Here goes:
I really do have to say that this year has been by far the most trying I’ve ever survived—and that counts the nearly five years of physical and emotional abuse I suffered at the hands of a mentally ill ex and the eight months I spent bedridden with Lyme disease and Lyme-induced lupus. Still, I’ve learned a lot this year. I learned that I’m even stronger than I thought I was. I learned that sometimes you don’t get to forgive someone who’s hurt you on your own terms (because death strikes on its time, not ours). I learned that life and the connections we make are far more precious than I’d previously believed.
For those who don’t know me, thanks for reading. Some pretty personal stuff is coming, stuff that probably won’t interest you. It’d be pretty cool if you kept on reading, but I’m not going to hold you to it. For those who do know me, those who have some kind of emotional investment in who I am and where I’ve been, I thank you for your love and support. What follows is a doozy. Here goes:
Christmas day marked the six-month anniversary of my mother’s untimely death. She’d been 57 when the heart attack had struck. My youngest sister found her lifeless body the following morning. I had not been on speaking terms with my mother for a few years. I’d felt the need to punish her for being … well, for being her. More specifically, I’d felt the need to punish her for the mental illness that had made her a sub-par mother and sometimes an even worse friend. Still, she’d had a good heart. She’d meant well. She really hadn’t ever had the chance to develop the skills needed to be a well-rounded adult. Her mother had died when she was 19; her father, too caught up in his own grief, had abandoned her and her two sisters shortly thereafter. She’d had to play life by ear. In many ways, she never stopped being a child. She’d hurt me more times than I could count. I’d refused to forgive her. I will have to live with the resulting lack of closure for the rest of my life.
Nearly eight months to the day, I lost someone who’d filled in for the empty spot most would designate as “son”; he’d have turned 15 the month after his death. Some of you might stop reading here when you learn that he was a cat. Those of you who ever knew him will know he was so much more than that. “Kitty” (he named himself—another story for another time) would have given you the stink-eye if you’d treated him like a feline. While he knew that’s exactly what he was, he strove to overcome species and form. Tommy and I used to jokingly call him our Pinocchio Cat—there was no question he’d longed for nothing more than to be a “real boy.” He’d taught himself to use doorknobs.
Nearly eight months to the day, I lost someone who’d filled in for the empty spot most would designate as “son”; he’d have turned 15 the month after his death. Some of you might stop reading here when you learn that he was a cat. Those of you who ever knew him will know he was so much more than that. “Kitty” (he named himself—another story for another time) would have given you the stink-eye if you’d treated him like a feline. While he knew that’s exactly what he was, he strove to overcome species and form. Tommy and I used to jokingly call him our Pinocchio Cat—there was no question he’d longed for nothing more than to be a “real boy.” He’d taught himself to use doorknobs.
| He’d taught himself to say a limited number of words—in English. (Tommy had thought me insane when I first shared our little secret, as before then Kitty had only spoken for me—until shortly after we’d moved in with him, Kitty led him to the sink and very clearly asked him for “wa-er.”) If you treated him like a cat, he’d slink away, mortified and hurt. He’s the reason Tommy and I got together, and telling this story always makes me smile. | |
As I shared above, I’d been in an especially brutal relationship. More specifically, I’d left said relationship with a cracked skull, split lips, and bruises covering at least 90% of my body. Needless to say, I’d left the man with some trust issues, issues so severe I didn’t date for three years. Then came Tommy. He was the neighbor across the way, a really neat guy my twin sister (with whom I lived at the time) had taken to inviting over regularly for dinner. She and Tommy were far from a decent match (much to her dismay), but the two of us were a perfect pair. I kept the walls between us though, terrified that he too might transform into a monster if I were to open myself up to him. Enter Kitty. Just as broken as I’d been from the abuse, Kitty had become deathly terrified of nearly everyone, but especially of men. In fact, my twin sister and her daughter were the only people other than me who could so much as touch him. That all changed the night Tommy and I were hanging out—and Kitty plopped down in front of him and offered his stomach for Tommy to rub. They were best pals from that moment on. Moreover, Kitty’s trust in Tommy said something to me. He saw something I’d refused to let myself see: Tommy was a kind, gentle, loving man—and my perfect match.
When Kitty died from an incurable infection he’d caught at the local veterinary clinic, life seemed to stop. Everything changed. Tommy and I (and Kitty’s sister, Kadie) still grieve his loss. It’s so unfair such a special person—and I mean that in the most definitive of terms—left this earth in such a terrible way. His illness was horrific. No one, the least of whom being someone like him, deserved to die in such a terrible way. But life had to go on.
When Kitty died from an incurable infection he’d caught at the local veterinary clinic, life seemed to stop. Everything changed. Tommy and I (and Kitty’s sister, Kadie) still grieve his loss. It’s so unfair such a special person—and I mean that in the most definitive of terms—left this earth in such a terrible way. His illness was horrific. No one, the least of whom being someone like him, deserved to die in such a terrible way. But life had to go on.
Last month, a close friend of mine also passed away. Her death was deemed undetermined. Her husband simply found her dead. They say things like this come in threes. I truly hope that is true, because I don’t think I’d be able to handle any more.
Despite all of the loss, I’ve clung to my will to write. I’ve allowed the pain to fuel me just as much as it’s held me back. Some decent stories have arisen from the horrors, and for that I’m grateful. Horror comes from various inspirations. Sometimes the greatest horror comes from places that are deeply personal, painful, and life-changing. Much of my horror comes from a place very deep and real. Perhaps one day I’ll share the inspirations behind some of my darkest stories.
Anyhow, I’ve rambled on long enough. I commend you if you’ve actually made it this far and thank you for taking an interest in my bizarre world. In a nutshell, it’s been a crazy life. This last year has been particularly trying. I survived, though, and I’ve emerged stronger, smarter, older.
And do I have some stories yet to share with you … 2014, hold onto your hat. We have some important business, you and I.
Despite all of the loss, I’ve clung to my will to write. I’ve allowed the pain to fuel me just as much as it’s held me back. Some decent stories have arisen from the horrors, and for that I’m grateful. Horror comes from various inspirations. Sometimes the greatest horror comes from places that are deeply personal, painful, and life-changing. Much of my horror comes from a place very deep and real. Perhaps one day I’ll share the inspirations behind some of my darkest stories.
Anyhow, I’ve rambled on long enough. I commend you if you’ve actually made it this far and thank you for taking an interest in my bizarre world. In a nutshell, it’s been a crazy life. This last year has been particularly trying. I survived, though, and I’ve emerged stronger, smarter, older.
And do I have some stories yet to share with you … 2014, hold onto your hat. We have some important business, you and I.
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