House Rules

I am on my couch sobbing because of my cat.

His name is Matzoh. Matzoh Larry Alexander to be precise. He lives at the center of a world I built deliberately; one made of quiet voices, routines, and safety. Nothing in his life is accidental.

Matzoh is little Rachel.

I just took a deep breath because I need to compose myself enough to see through the tears to type. I need to create the space in my own being in order to gather my thoughts for this to make any sense to anyone.

I am vicious when it comes to him. I don’t let others speak his name if they aren’t worthy. Yes, I am serious. Those who have romantic interest in me are not allowed nor permitted to talk about him until things get serious. There was one time that I had someone over, Matzoh hissed at them and I haven’t spoken to them since. I could give a shit. I will absolutely put a bullet through someone’s face if they ever even come close to upsetting him.

Rachel, relax.

No.

Matzoh came to me in the strangest of ways. I didn’t even like cats nor was I in a space to have a cat, or anything to take care of at all for that matter. In saying that, we have a really cute and strange back story which I will probably get to later, but for now, I want to try to articulate what I mean when I say that he is Little Rachel.

You may already be nodding your head… it may have already clicked for you, even so, I can assure you that the amount of depth behind this reality goes far beyond even what I can comprehend.

For example…

I’ve been in many relationships. Some painful and abusive, some loving, and some genuinely good. In all of them, I have never been physically abusive. That having been said, my words can cut deep, and I leave fast. Sometimes I leave the room. Sometimes the apartment. Often, the relationship.

None of the partners I am referring to in this scenario have ever been dangerous. They have always been gentle, decent people. The kind who would never hurt an animal, it wouldn’t even occur to them. And yet, in moments of conflict, I always “go there”

Even during the smallest of arguments or disagreements, I pack my things. Tell them to ‘fuck off’, completely overreact, and immediately bring up Matzoh. Threats of violence and promises of irreparable damage. I make these promises with rage in my mouth and keys in my hand. I threaten violence, severe violence. The kind of violence that would land me in prison. I bring him up during every argument or disagreement without fail. “I swear to fucking god if you even come close to Matzoh, I will fucking end you. Stay the fuck away from him.” (I’m holding back much of what I usually say because it’s sickening) I want to let you know that in all of these cases, tiny arguments, 100% of the time, Matzoh isn’t even with me or us. Nope, he’s in my apartment miles away… not even in the same space.

Fucking insane. I know.

As a result, understandably, they are always confused. They apologize. They say, “I would never hurt him” and of course they wouldn’t.

I leave anyway.

In these moments, I become a villain. One with an origin story, yes, but a villain nonetheless. Not because I want to hurt anyone, but because my body believes it is fighting to survive. For both Matzoh and myself. And I mean that literally. This behavior is learned. It comes from a childhood where danger was constant. Anything could trigger violence. And where safety never existed long enough to trust it. No really, this reaction doesn’t come from ‘me’. It comes from a little girl that learned how to survive long before she had language for it.

To elaborate and further explain, sitting within me are a lot of different ‘parts’

Not in the sense of dissociative identity disorder or “multiple personality disorder”. No. Think of them as a slight step up from having different ‘sides’ to me. A little more intense, distinct, and noticeable.

First is the Self. Who I am today. Who you see me as. The writer, the homebody, the creator, the independent and strong woman who handles shit and needs nobody. The one who goes to therapy and knows the importance of mental health. The one who does the laundry, and at the same time, leaves the mess on the floor because ‘fuck it’. The one who is you, and me, and your friends. The woman who is just existing today.

There is a woman who is a workaholic and proves her worth by never getting up from her desk, taking a day off, or even getting up for bathroom breaks in the office. This woman is a ‘fucking idiot’ and is ‘lazy’ and will never amount to anything. She spends her days, her life, knowing that while she is a fucking idiot, she still has things to do. So she does them. She also restricts her eating, and only matters when other people say she does. She’s a neat freak and wildly obsessive. Obsessive about her thoughts, the inflections used when others speak to her, and the pen she just dropped which made a noise. She will check and recheck work. Read her own emails, and then minimize them and wait an hour before opening them and reading them again and again before sending. Then she will feel disgust for sending them in the first place. Even if they are one sentence long. Locking doors, going back, locking them again. Bottom line is that this Rachel is worth absolutely nothing, and deserves nothing. She is only worth what she provides.

Then there is a teenager that rebels, curses, shoplifts, and pushes boundaries with no regard for anyone but herself. This one is tricky, because she faces a lot of consequences. Another reason why this one is ‘tricky’ is because she comes out whenever the fuck she wants. At the most inappropriate of times with a smile, hoping someone will say something about it. She takes great pride and joy in all of her unhealthy decisions, and brags about them simply to see others’ reactions. She is loud, angry as hell, and cuts people off for the hell of it. She puts herself in danger for the thrill of the danger itself. She is a complete bitch. She loves it.

The Siren, the goddess has been taught that sexuality is her greatest and most powerful attribute. She is masterful at getting what she wants. There are no exceptions to this. Who, When, How, What. She makes the rules, watches as they follow and makes them say ‘thank you’ at the end. This bitch knows what the fuck she’s doing. These behaviors were also something she learned at a very young age. There is a lot to say about this version of myself. I have used her on many occasions, some of which are far too inappropriate for this particular piece, so I will refrain. At the moment, I’m also feeling quite shy about it. Not because she’s not valid, but rather because you might not be able to see me as anything else once I go down that road. I promise you though, there is much to be said about her and it all will be, in due time… For now, I will leave her here.

Then, there is Little Rachel. She is about 6-7 years old and terrified. She is terrified all the time and knows nothing else other than the reality of pain and instability. Anything can happen at any moment, and all of those things include her being afraid and desperate. This little girl has been protected by nobody. She is alone even when surrounded by people. The spaces where she should be safest are the ones where she is in the most danger. The ones where she has to fight for survival. Literal survival. This little girl has nothing colorful, soft, quiet, or meaningful in any way. She whispers, tip toes, and apologizes. All she knows are the realities of being terrible, stupid, a bitch, lazy, and absolutely worthless. This little girl, little Rachel, lives within me. Just as the others do. Heart racing as doorknobs turn and doors creek open, not knowing who will walk through them, or what versions they will be. The little girl who doesn’t know how to take care of herself because nobody taught her. She is unkept and laughed at. She faces danger and pain every single fucking day and nobody cares. In fact, those people love it. They revel in it. The very people who should care are the ones who cause the most damage.
This little girl is still very much prominent today. She shows up regularly… in fact, she is present just a bit more than the others. She needs to be healed. Healed in ways that go beyond coloring books and nostalgia. This little girl actually needs to go back to that age, and relive it all over again in a completely different way. A way that proves that she is safe.

Now I’m crying once again.

This one really matters. It hits hard, and as shameful as it may be for me to have to admit, I have promised myself that I would be honest and vulnerable throughout this process of writing my truth. The bottom line is that she is put in violent situations intentionally, and…

there is nothing about her that anyone could ever love. This is something that is told to her regularly.

 
I don’t have children. This is by choice. I have made this choice with intention and a great deal of thought. First, being the science of it all. My genetics. I refuse to pass along the genes of both of my parents to another person. Additionally, I like my peace and quiet. I want to be a little bit selfish and I feel that once you have a child, they are above you. A priority at all times. Next reason being that I don’t want to be tied to another person for the next 18 years (I mean the other parent, not the child), and I also don’t believe that I am stable enough to have a child. Most importantly, I am afraid that I will harm that child as Edele did me. I have a deep-rooted fear, my greatest fear actually, that deep down, I am Edele. That one day I will snap and become her. Even to the point of actually killing my child. As severe as that sounds, it’s my truth. I have had Matzoh for almost 4 years now and I sill worry that I will one day snap, turn into her and hurt him. I have been assured by many mental health professionals that this is impossible and will never happen, however, if it ever does and there are children around, I will do irreparable damage to that child. I simply won’t have it.

This is where Matzoh comes in…

No, I don’t have children. But I do have a little creature that I am responsible for. One that requires basic needs in order to simply survive. He needs to eat, drink water, have a litter box, and that’s about it.

Beyond that, anything else is my choice entirely. How I treat him, what I provide to him, what he experiences on a daily basis, the feelings that he has, how he is taught to respond to loud noises, other people, how I let him lay in between me and my laptop while working even though he presses keys regularly. The stability and routines, safety of any kind. How he is shown love, what it means and that love exists at all. Giving him “up high time” where I carry him around and show him things that are up high that he wouldn’t otherwise be able to see. That I riddle my apartment with boxes, scratching pads, treats, and brown bags. The two types of food that I provide for him, and how I pay my neighbor to come over during the day to play with him while I’m at work. The soft blankets, repetition of words, the world that he lives in overall, and everything that encompasses it. That is all on me just as much as meeting his basic needs. And all of those things, from the tiniest of moments to the space and time he takes up, all of them represent who I am as a mother and who he is as a ‘child’. This next sentence warrants you reading it twice. He doesn’t just represent “little Rachel”, he IS “little Rachel”

And in giving him all that I have to give, maybe I’m healing my own little girl just a tiny bit. Maybe I’m letting her know what she deserves. In reliving all of this, even from the other side, I am experiencing something that I have never known before. Something that I would never know if it weren’t for his tiny little existence. Safety.

Here comes the part that is unhealthy…

The other side of the coin is the protection from the violence and terror that I know exists in this world. I only know of it because I was there for it. Not only was I there for it, but I was deliberately exposed to it with no reprieve, remorse, or explanation. My existence knew nothing but horror and terror. And when I link Matzoh to that element alone, even though he has never once been in any danger or threat of any kind, the simple idea of it makes my heart race, my blood pressure rise, and my body to get physically hot. I become furious, vengeful, vicious, unforgiving, unrelenting, dangerous. Abusive.

Matzoh is unrealistically protected. Truly unrealistic. It goes far beyond anything that makes any sense, and while this is unhealthy, and leads to issues in my own personal relationships, I have absolutely no intention or care to change it. Not because I don’t want to ‘better myself’, because I absolutely do, but even within my own active healing journey, there are certain things that I am not willing to budge on. This is one of them. Unapologetically.

He is a piece of me made visible. A second chance placed in my hands. A tiny life that I get to raise which will always know safety and never feel fear.

He will be protected. He will be cherished. He will be spared what I was not, and every single fucking day, he will be loved more than the last.

And he will know nothing else.