They are beloved. But they are not therapeutic

It’s a common perception: mentally ill? A pet could give you a reason to get up in the morning, comfort, companionship, healing. Some credit their pet with saving their life. Pets are therapeutic.

But not for me.

And I wish I’d known that before I had them. Even though they weren’t adopted for any potential therapeutic benefit.

My two new kittens are a minefield

in a life which was already a minefield, and the shrapnel fills my brain as relentlessly as loose cat hair fills the house.

So much hair. So much shrapnel. Impossible to escape. These cute creatures aren’t ‘healing’ me (as some in my life may have hoped). They’re exacerbating what was already inside my PTSD brain: stress, anxiety, flashbacks which aren’t flashbacks but forward backs (thoughts of things which probably will never happen but might happen), paranoia, and fearfulness.

The fear.

Instead of just living with the PTSD terror of something awful happening to me, there’s now the terror of something happening to them. House fires, gas leaks, assaults, etc; all those things which I fear for myself I now fear for three.

Instead of just being hyper-vigilant, I’m now hyper-vigilant simultaneously in separate locations. At home, I rush between rooms (is Kitten A chewing a cord? Is Kitten B trapped in a plastic bag I didn’t notice was there?) whilst checking the doors and windows in case someone is breaking in.

Outside the house, my usually simple “perhaps I’ll get assaulted as I walk to the shops” is now combined with thoughts such as: “perhaps there will be a fire while I’m out and the kittens die a terrible lonely death” AND/OR “perhaps I forgot to disconnect a cord and they’ll electrocute themselves” AND/OR “perhaps I’ll get assaulted, die and they’ll starve.”

“Perhaps…perhaps…”. There’s such a layer of stress to every outing that I don’t even want to go out with friends.

Yet, better they die from natural disaster, accident or starvation than through human cruelty. The haunting thought of them escaping the house and some terrible person catching and abusing them torments me to the point I wish I’d never adopted them.

If only I could return to my pre-pet life where I was afraid solely for my own safety.

The terror of something happening to my kittens is sucking away the joy in life, and there wasn’t much joy to begin with.

Meanwhile, self-doubt bubbles inside me,

feeding my fears, stained by my traumatic past.

the last cat I had was shot by my father, I’ve never had a pet of any type live to old age because something has always gone wrong. Am I capable of keeping these animals alive for the 20+ years cats can live??

I scrutinise them hourly for signs of illness, throw out all potentially toxic cleaning products, and save three emergency vet numbers to my phone.

I don’t get out of bed every morning to enjoy the therapeutic benefit of my pets. I get up to make sure they are safe, well and alive, always doubting my ability to keep them so.

PTSD means I don’t deal with stress well

and I struggle to control my emotions.

Common sense should have told me that adopting a shelter animal with a history of trauma may be stressful. Indeed, Kitten A’s behavioural ‘quirks’ mean there’s now two of us in this house who are hyper-vigilant, moody and damaged.

Add Kitten B who acts depressed whenever she hears “no,” and some days our house is a melting pot of negativity, as we trigger each other’s vulnerabilities.

There’s no yelling though, and no punishments. Instead, it’s a silent, fuming standoff because if I yell it scares Cat A which then scares Cat B. So, I scream inside. I can’t cry in front of them either because it upsets them.

Unable to openly express them, my emotions are a pent-up volcano.

My human relationships suffer.

The combination of PTSD and various chronic health problems

mean I’m tired all the time. Now I find running after two kittens slams me into the ground physically as well as emotionally.

I just want to sleep, but I can’t because I’m too busy keeping them safe, well and happy, and it feels like a losing battle, consuming almost every bit of energy I have.

Kitten B looks depressed. Is she sad because I haven’t given her enough attention? Kitten A is having a meltdown. Is he feeling unloved?

I know what that feels like.

I don’t want them to feel the same feelings of rejection and lovelessness I felt as a child. I’m desperate for them to be happy.

I’m doing the best I can for them, but is my best really good enough? Probably not, I always conclude.

So, I drop what I’m doing to talk to them, play with them and pat them even though they have been played with, patted and talked to almost every few minutes since they arrived months ago.

My structured pre-pet daily routine (which reduced my inner chaos) soon disappears; no day is exactly alike because it is dictated by them.

I can’t find the energy to meet their needs as well as mine, so I sacrifice, neglecting tasks such as washing clothes and shaving my legs, shopping and housework.

Pre-cat I felt I was keeping my head above water. Now, watching my ‘to do’ list grow as the fridge gets emptier and the house gets dirtier is like slowly drowning.

Gone also are my ‘therapeutic hobbies’ like the daily exercise bike rides and 10-minute meditations. Piano practice is erratic. I skip church, cancel coffee dates and stop walking to see the swans. Some days I don’t go outside. Rather than expand to encompass two cats, my world has narrowed.

Exhausted, I feel guilt for every second I spend not interacting with them. And then I resent them. And then I feel bad for resenting them. And then I feel sorry for them.

After all, they waddle under the weight of my poor mental health.

Even if I was able to ignore

the emotional and physical impacts of pet parenting, I cannot ignore the financial impact.

To be fair to myself, I wasn’t to know on adoption day that within months the cost of living would skyrocket. On a pension I wasn’t rich pre-pet, but I was okay. But now, with shock increases in gas, electricity, body corp fees, rates, medical bills, insurance, food, etc etc., we are really not rich. My fear of running out of money, being kicked off the pension and ending up homeless is intense because, if that happens, what happens to them?

I agonise over food purchases and house repairs, and cry when the kittens reject their food and destroy their toys.

Money pours out of my account - adding to the PTSD feeling of my world being out of control.

Eleven months into ‘parenthood’ and few understand the turmoil inside me.

Hear the word “kitten” and people instantly think of fun. They look taken aback when I try to explain that this hasn’t quite been my experience. I lash out in hurt at their impatience because (in my mind) they are suddenly not on my side. I feel alone, misunderstood, defensive. I am sometimes not nice to be with.

Pet ownership has not brought out the best in me. It has brought out the terror in me.

And I have not risen well to the challenge.

Self-condemning, I bash myself up for not being a good enough ‘parent’, for my inability to cope, for lashing out at people, for failing life.

I don’t wish my kittens gone at all, but I do wish them gone. Sometimes. So that my fears could ease.

They are funny, loyal, loving. I feel sorry they live with someone so conflicted and damaged.

I don’t want to imagine life without them, but I struggle to embrace life with them. They have added to my shrapnel.

I love them. Even though I fear to. Even though I’m not comfortable with love. Even though love hurts me and tends to end badly.

So, when I look into their little golden eyes and my heart squirms, wanting to shy away from them, instead I feel their purrs deep in my bones.

And I don’t draw away. I love them.

I’m barely coping, but my little cats and I pull each other through each crazy, chaotic imperfect day.

With the best of the best of our abilities.

They are well cared for.

I hope they are happy.

They are beloved.

But. They are not therapeutic.