Manifesting my humanity

                                                       

                                                                     PHOTO BY Shaz

Why can’t I be good? Acceptable? Strong in values? Committed to my family? Loyal to all my old and new friendships? Hard-working? Disciplined? And every admirable trait known to humxnkind because that’s what existing on this planet is about whether we humxns are aware of it or not, and whether we’re in favour of achieving such gratifying acts, thoughts, and feelings or would rather like to infuse them with a tablespoon or more of destruction. 

Mind you, I don’t wish any life’s expiration. I don’t sit in solitude casting calamitous hocus-pocus on those who may have taken part in damaging my character. And I have never doubted the loving hearts of the people closest to me. No, no. I only desire total annihilation for me on certain days when I can’t fathom the monstrousness deep within me. 

You’re probably wondering what infernal regions internal to this particular universe am I alluding to because if it remains a perplexity to your ethical convictions, you’ll have very little choice but to speculate. And most of us know that making assumptions about others based on too few facts or zero evidence for that matter creates a Frankenstein sort of effect whereby the affliction inside becomes compounded with bogus claptrap that if I were taken to court, all this added nonsense would be considered indubitable proof of my delinquency.

The truth? There aren’t any words in this language to allow myself to comfortably and without shame express exactly the inner torment that has been an undisclosed trajectory for most of my life since the age of two or three. I use trajectory because this portion of who I am on Earth continues to make an indelible and detectable curve or wound that dwells in me until this life I know terminates. 

I’ve always hoped for atonement. Every time I believed the abomination had gone, it comes charging back in greater degenerate depths. Defeated yet elated in the crude moment though it takes away my capability to spend hundreds and thousands of minutes and hours to do significant, rewarding, and purposeful endeavours to support my own health and wellbeing and make a lasting and meaningful difference in others. 

For instance, the knowledge and capacity I have could be utilized to help and support freedom, the humxn rights, the health and safety of the millions of people all over the globe who are suffering and are begging the international community to step in and rise up for humanity. We see this most recently in the brutal slayings of innocent civilians in Palestine by the occupying Zionist state and military forces of Is-raol. We are living in the 21st century, 2024 is just around the corner, and yet we are still having to witness the complete depravity, cruelty, and violence of humxns against their companion humxns who have lost their families, grandparents, mothers, fathers, children, friends, members of the press, healthcare providers, teachers, farmers, and many other humxns just like you and me who were just going about their days doing errands, etc. They were and are people with dreams and goals, all wiped out within seconds, hours, days, weeks and months. And their pets and animal companions were forced to face, too, this relentless assault on their peace, safety and dignity. Added to the despair, malnutrition, disease and poverty are now constant fixtures of an already beleaguered region. I would join so many humxns and add my voice and resources wholeheartedly to this tragic loss of life, land and liberty of the Palestinians. May God bless them and turn the tides in their favour. And may all the world wake up to acknowledge, and to act and be part of saving Palestine and the Palestinians from this genocide. 

I will conclude my post here with the responsibility that I must begin the process of healing ❤️‍🩹 what lies in my heart, mind and soul, so that I may be of generous and compassionate service to the world and its inhabitants - humxn, animal, all species. I know only this life and I must make it purposeful, exceptional, and trustworthy to myself and to all the world, the magnificent world and its equally magnificent residents. 

♥️

“Louder Than Bombs”

I asked myself what happens to a person when they cannot express their feelings, emotions, and deepest thoughts to at least one person who could understand them or tries to. It’s happened to me. I’ve seen it happen to other people around me. What happens is that the subconscious reacts in whatever ways could redirect this confluence of inner distress. Maybe taking a form that may not be palatable for society. Expressing an intensity whose depths and origins even the person who enacts the subsequent behaviours might not be conscious of. 

Why is this so? Why are so many people living their whole lives wrapped in silence about their circumstances, situations, life trajectories and inner conflicts - these elements that create anxiety, fear, sadness, anger, and the whole range of melancholia. By the way, men and boys have higher rates of the risk of suicide in Canada. 

The self-imposed or societal solitary confinement remains internal up to a certain point. Then the restraints become unbearable. We are busted open, not quietly, but - to borrow The Smiths album title - louder than bombs. The eruption can be heard by victims or loved ones, maybe by the cops and the media, and consequently, by the public. 

There is no specific research I can draw on off the top of my head that studies a correlation between repressed emotions or mental anguish to violent behaviour, but, if you, dear reader, do know of one or a few, please leave links in the comments. 

How I chose to cope with repression is through consuming an unsavoury list of dependencies that racked my body, mentally, physically, and emotionally, fracturing my essential character and how I presented myself to the world. Having been diagnosed with Spasmodic Dysphonia in 2008 was one variation of the fracturing. But, again, to borrow the song title this time from Ivy’s tune, I had to “keep moving” despite that my voice made people wince, cry, laugh, shout profanities my way, exclaim that I must leave at once because my voice was disturbing everyone else in the space - people wondered why I even spoke at all. I remember attending a lecture by Dr. Gabor Mate on mental health and then meeting him afterwards. He said there is something that I am preventing from getting out. He was right, of course, but I had no hint of what that could be then. Now, I’m getting closer to what it might be - I’m getting closer to this truth about me. The voice changes with every realization I have made regarding this truth.

Everyone has their truth and struggles with the self. Some people are fortunate to know others they trust with their lives and can be vulnerable around them and make declarations about their innermost beliefs, thoughts, feelings, and emotions without the fear of judgement from these confidantes. But a great number of folks do not have warm, kind, supportive, and loving people around them who they can open up to at least about their deepest pain/hurt or the nethermost elements of their character. Furthermore, what we can reveal about ourselves is affected by a host of factors including: Does it conflict with the law? Are we abominable people for thinking and feeling this way? What actions have we already committed that could engender dismay or horror? Elements that perhaps would cause distress in the listener, a form of judgement no less. 

If The Thing is not disclosed to anyone, it is exposed through our habits and behaviours that possibly can lead to self-abnegation and/or force iniquities on to those we know and/or to those who are strangers. Society has been receiving the message to change the ways it perceives people who have troubling inner lives since time immemorial. Our systems built upon colonial rule, patriarchy, misogyny - ultimately, are codes of violence that systematized into coercive control of other peoples, their ways of life, and their lands. Change will not come to the West instantaneously because it is so steeped in the violence it created. 

This violence drives war, rape, human trafficking, displacement, inequality, racism, homophobia and transphobia, gender-based violence/intimate partner violence, and much, much more including the prison industrial complex. How about instead of putting people behind bars, we can develop alternative methods to ensure accountability by connecting them to programs and services where they can be heard and 

PHOTO BY NEEL SABETH

encouraged to contribute in self- and community-sustaining ways. Offer or create environments with universal health care and efficient social services, and strengthen and enhance the communities they self-identify with and provide assistance, assurance, compassion, care, treatment, respect, love, and dignity; otherwise, dying by suicide, for instance, will continue to make headlines and become a permanent fracture of our century. 

We now have the opportunity, the capacity, the human power, and the resources to transform and make it possible for people who are suffering privately excruciating attributes and conditions to express publicly in spaces that are safe(r) their deepest sorrow and darkest perturbations. They can receive steadfast attention and grow into transformative healing. In this way, society may realize and achieve healing as part of an equitable, compassionate, helping, and respectful landscape of new systems of care. A landscape that was punitive in scope - an ubiquity that could remain unchallenged except we, the people, can actualize a world that advances transformative justice and healing for all including other sentient beings, toppling these confining and decrepit regimes and their overbearing systems of domination. 

There is so much to learn about the nature of the self and transformative journeys in Indigenous Peoples’ theirstories, customs, cultures, practices, medicine, foods, ways of living, healing circles and health. These varied, diverse, and global nations have ancient and contemporary traditions that put transformative journeys for vulnerable populations into supportive practice within community. 

Free Palestine, The Congo, and all peoples who are trying to survive under colonial rule. Fight for the liberation of all people. Only then can we all be free. 

-30-

Portals exist throughout our lives

I've gone through another portal. These portals show up for me secretly without notifying me. They direct me to pass through them whenever they feel the time has come for the ending of one book and the beginning of a new book. When i look back on my memories, I understand what these portals have done, but this truth has come to me now after turning 50. 

These portals allow me to look back on my time on Earth and does not hide any of my faults. As i view these moments, i feel dissociated from the person being 'filmed'. This is ok. 

The portals that come to me dissociate me from the person in the past. Each time i pass through, they change me. This is a common experience among many of us. We feel dissociated from the past and the person who was 'me' in several film scripts. 

My sibs know 'me' the best. They will tell you that there are qualities in me that identify me as the person in the past. I agree. And, of course, i am all those versions of the 'self', and of the humxn family.

This new change - Neel - is based on some memories about that child. Read Concatenation published on this blog on May 25, 2015. 

Peace, all you bright souls.

💞🌟

 

Samantha a.k.a Sammy, but best known as Lalu

Lalu-jaanu, on our first day together. June 2014. PHOTO BY SI

Lalu-jaanu was a sweet and quiet cat. She had no voice, but often a purr. It sounded like the roses in my mom's backyard - a calm hush on days she wasn't feeling too old. She was 10 years old when I adopted her. On other days, she purred as if to say, things inside were out of order. Things that didn't trouble me, because I read purring was a sign of contentment. It was later that I found out it was also your cat trying to tell you that she was not ok.

She was a patient at a cat clinic. I took her there a few times, then switched to another veterinarian because the new cat was going there and I wanted both of them to get care from the same place. That vet only saw her once and told me that Lalu was suffering from pain in the mouth - gingivitis or worse, periodontal disease. The vet suggested extraction and switching to soft food. She told me to think about it and get back to her.

She never saw the vet again after that. Because after AK, there was Mini. Both AK and Mini had significant health issues that I was not equipped to handle. AK at 4, had UTI (urinary tract infection) - at least that's what I thought he had at the time. I never found out what it actually was, and still am not sure. A few days before, he was showing signs that something was amiss, but I had hoped it was the same as last time, and that soon, he'd be back to somewhat normal. Four days later, he was dead. Lalu saw it all. She was on the bed near him. I had him for exactly a year.

Then there was my Mini-munoo. She had CKD (chronic kidney disease) and it was only noticed when her tummy looked like there was a soccer ball inside it. I didn't pay it any mind, but the vet did. She took an x-ray, and then showed me what was going on with Mini. The vet said she would drain the fluid from the cyst that had formed around one of her kidneys, but the CKD couldn't be helped because of the stage Mini was at. She was only 12. I used to say that she accepted death - she stopped eating, stopped drinking water, and just sat in a chair, not responding to me. When the vet and her assistant arrived at my home to put her under, Mini-munoo's former humxn and her partner were there too, and I was grateful for that. She died in my arms.

What about Lalu-jaanu? Well, Lalu passed away about 3 months before Mini. She was really thin - eating kibble was hard on her mouth and probably causing further inflammation in the gums. She had lost a tooth a while back - one of her fangs. I wasn't prepared for what the vet at the emergency animal hospital told me about Lalu's condition. It was worse than I thought. She had fluid around her lungs, so that's why she was having trouble breathing. They put her in a small enclosure and put an oxygen pump in her mouth. I told her everything was going to be ok. She wanted to go home though. As she looked up, our eyes met.

Then the vet came back after the tests were done. Before, it seemed after they got the fluid out, Lalu would be breathing as normal again. This was not the case. They found cancerous tumours in her lung cavity and her tummy. Tooth decay and bad bacteria from the mouth may have been a factor, too. Leaving my Lalu-jaanu at the hospital, I went home to decide on what to do. I called my vet and she said it was too late to save her and putting her down would be the humane thing to do. Mini-minoo was still alive at the time, and gazed up at my tearful complexion. I cuddled her and thought I never had the chance to do this all that much for Lalu.

Just before I took Lalu to the emergency, she came over to where I was, sitting in front of my laptop. I can't remember what I was doing at the time - I was working on something. It was late - around 3 a.m. or nearly 4. I don't quite remember. She came and circled my feet like she'd always do. Then she'd go off into the other room. But after a few minutes passed, I went over to her and found her gasping and lying on her side. This was an emergency and I didn't want what happened to AK happen to Lalu. There was a momentary pause as I struggled to figure out what to do. I called the emergency animal hospital and they told me to bring her in, so I picked Lalu up as gently as I could and put her in the carrier - she was like a feather. When I held her, I felt a swelling on her tummy, but didn't have time to think about it. The taxi arrived.

The thing about Lalu's death was that I failed to be with her when they administered the first injection. That must have been terrifying for her. The first injection was to put her in a kind of peaceful daze. She was alive but barely. Then they brought her to me where I was waiting inside a room with a couch, dim lighting, and a few other things that made it a calm part of the hospital. They left me alone with her before the final injection. I said thank you to her, for the 5 years that she was with me. I said I was sorry that I let her down and didn't check with her first before bringing other cats into our home. I said I really appreciated how much she eventually accepted these cats - AK and Mini - though she took her time. She and AK became like best friends, something that I hadn't noticed until both were gone. There they were, in the pictures. In each one, they were together, sharing their food, interlocking their tails, sitting side by side, one looking at the other as they relaxed in front of the large window.

I looked at her face - her eyes were open but glazed over. She was already gone. The vet came with the second injection and in it went, inside her, to fill up her vessels with pentobarbitol, shooting its way towards the heart. It went faster than that. I was crying, so hard, and kept kissing her forehead. She had passed on. I stayed for some time with her before calling the vet to come take her. I left for home with a heavy heart, burdened by confusion, guilt, and grief. My Lalu was no longer here. She joined AK somewhere in the realm of consciousness, feeling or thought floating in the universe, maybe. Or, maybe she stopped to exist in her capacity as a cat. There was nothing left after, just her ashes.

Lalu-jaanu's ashes are in a small sealed pot like AK's and Mini's. The three petite urns are on top of the bookshelf, along with photos of each of them and their collars. Memorials. Soon, one day, I will release their ashes in Lake Ontario. This was something I had planned on doing last summer, but never got around to it. After COVID-19 is cleared, I promise to myself, to my mom, and to my two kitties who are now my biggest worry, to release the ashes, to let go of the guilt, and to be happy that I had 3 fur babies who lit up my life in the small, precious ways they did.

Lalu was my first adopted cat. I knew she had a tough life before I met her. She had a tough life even after. If I could get inside her mind (and in the minds of all my cats), I'd know what to do to help her remain calm in the face of overwhelming hardship. She was unique with a soul to call her own.

If Lalu-jaanu can hear these words, I hope they will convince her to forgive me.

Rest in Peace, Love, and Joy, Lalu-jaanu, wherever you are, as a spirit, as a star, as air, as nothingness, or whatever you dream yourself to be in death beyond the Rainbow Bridge.

Oct 3, 2004 - Feb 25, 2019. Photo by SI

The Creeps!

Photo of waves crashing against the rocks. Lake Ontario. PHOTO BY SI

While everyone is freaking out about COVID-19, I'm afraid of the night and the strange sounds it brings with it. Sometimes, the wind will rap on my back door, waking up my cat. She'll look towards the door for a while, then look at me. She's not really scared, actually. She's a 4-year-old fighter with some of her feral kitty instincts still intact. My older cat, on the other hand, is a scaredy-cat like me, only the terror doesn't stay in him for long because he's got his humxn by his side. He'd listen intently to the noise or to the silence, would tremble a little, and stay close to me, reaching his front legs out and resting them on my arm. I'd reassure him that it was nothing. He'd sense my trepidation, though, and so would the younger one. Still, they would make their peace with the darkness by falling asleep, so they could travel through another world.

What about me? Who's going to help me drift off? I tune in to the silence, expecting to hear something loud or the crash of an object in my vicinity. But other than the sounds of the fridge and old-apartment creaks and cracks, I don't hear anything else except a constant whirring sound - like water gushing from somewhere. It lasts for some time before it suddenly stops.

Then, stillness. Or, disquietude.

What about the jangle outside? Could it be the tempest tap, tap, tapping against the door, windows, and brick walls? Or, could it be peculiar vibrations, notes, and tones that were comparable to soft thuds, footsteps, or someone fiddling with the door handle? It's been terrifying me since December 2015, if my memory serves me correctly. In actuality, the fear comes from a childhood of being afraid of the dark, of monsters and malice. I didn't know during my formative years that it was anxiety - at least that's what they call it in the DSM-V. But in my mind, it was dread, panic, or the creeps!