I have an irresistibly fluffy, but threateningly grumpy, roommate. She goes by Zora. On the outside, she appears to be an adorable kitty. But make no mistake. On the inside, she is a brusque elderly woman with no fucks left to give. She will use you for pets on her own terms, and make it unmistakably and ouch-ably clear when you’re doing it wrong. Her right-pawed boop is both feared and revered by the humans and non-humans of our home. And that’s if she’s feeling generous. Don’t make her tell you a second time with her teeth.
At the time of writing, I’m riding an insomnia wave. Or rather drowning in it. It is what it is. A tolerance break from coffee and another sleep compression cycle ought to set my befuddled body clock on the straight and narrow again. Till then I’ve been frequenting my living room couch somewhere between 1 and 3am more nights than not. A habit that Zora and I share. I think that she gets lonely at night. So although she isn’t as fond of me as she is of her own humans, it’s 2am and I’ll do. She saunters over, leaps onto my chest, and claws my skin up to make herself cozy.
If this isn’t already abundantly clear, Zora scares the Jesus out of me (even if there wasn’t much Jesus in me to begin with). But despite this I still want to please her. I desperately want to pet her properly and be rewarded with her purring. I’d rather avoid the sharp nip and subsequent flight that results when I don’t pet her as she wants. It’s my fault I know, I say. I’m the problem it’s me.
A few nights ago, however, my 2am brain felt inspired by Zora’s crankiness. I saw that Zora, the grumpy matriarch of this household, was like the parts of my own psyche that I don’t fully understand, and that sometimes lash out at me for not treating them well. I don’t instinctively know how to pet Zora as she desires, or if she even wants to be pet by me, because we don’t speak the same language. I’m learning, and I can tell now when she’s beginning to bristle, the cautionary tail swing, the purr pause. Similarly, I have parts, whose needs I don’t intuit – my anxious lost child part, the hysterical voice of terror, the cutting voice of shame, the sick anorexic teenager, the impulsive and self-harming manic part, the army sergeant that grumbles incessantly about what I should and should not do. When I interact with these parts in a way that makes them more uncomfortable, they lash out. When this happens, as is true for Zora, I cannot judge them. They are protecting themselves in the only way they know how. I wasn’t paying attention as they bristled and warned me. I didn’t heed their requests. I just continued to pet them as I assumed I should.
I don’t impose my pets on Zora anymore, even when she sits on my chest at 2am. I put my hand near her, and let her move into it as she wishes. I ask her with my body language what she needs from me. I stay curious and attentive, so that I remember what she likes and doesn’t like. I remain vigilant for the warning signs that I’ve breached a boundary. I give her the time and the space to communicate her desires and her boundaries to me. I’d like to do the same for my internal parts. Not to tolerate their lashing out, but to acknowledge that while I don’t understand them, I’d like to if they’ll let me.
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