all those cat memes on Pinky blog hid something dark

So I'm being strongly encouraged by my psychologist to keep writing. I can't write the way I started out, painfully naive and unaware of readership. Blunt and stupidly ignorant of other people's feelings. Most of my learning has come from watching trackers, following what readers search out. I see through other eyes and notice tag search themes or repeated hits.

But that's over now. I turned that off. I'm blind again but way more cognizant of impact, especially as I'm coming to realize the impact on myself over time.

I want to see inside my head as badly as a couple of visitors seem to want to. I want to ask myself questions and get real answers. Is that even possible?

Hypnosis came up. I wouldn't mind but I'm not sure I'm ready. What if the me I hold down bolts at the first opportunity? I've been known to bolt, just stand up and head out a door and off in a vehicle before anyone can stop me. That kind of thing actually saved my life a few times, but I don't want to become combative with nice people trying to help me not bolt. Or go to a corner, or even get mean.

I remember when I worked a hotel desk years ago. The stupid manager would let the dumbest people camp out fresh out of jail or off the street and we'd wind up calling cops and scaring families. One guy had a restraining order from his wife, was fresh out of jail and no one would take him in, so I was stuck with him trying to talk to me every evening shift. I was the only employee on the grounds until nearly midnight, stuck with him trying to bring me food or blocking up the counter like he was at a bar trying to get me to talk. He started getting angry about me never even taking a sip of a soda pop he'd bring to me, and finally started blowing whatever gasket he wasn't processing.

There was one night I felt it. The second I realized I was terrified of him (several weeks into his stay), the mean me slid in and took over. I got really loud and told him stop bringing me food and stay away from my counter. That triggered him and I suddenly got so mean and even louder that he shut his mouth and went to his room. I could tell, though, that he'd have hit me if he hadn't controlled it. From then on, as long as he stayed, I had Scott come eat supper with me while I worked.

Scott grew up with mean people yelling. He grew up with violent alcoholic parents. Scott says *I* scare him. Other people say that, too, when they see that me.

My psychologist has never seen me like that.

That me was married to a very bad pedophile gun thief. That me could take crap and look back in the eye like I could melt people. That me wasn't afraid while I was caught in the middle of a car chase on the edge of the Phoenix desert between 2 drug lords fighting over territory. That me stood face to face to a gang of girls at school who dumped food on me and ripped my clothes. That me doesn't give a thought to whether anyone cares or gets hurt, and the surprising part is that I'm one of the anyone. That me could get shot in the face without an eye blink and never notice what I'm feeling inside.

I don't want to be that to people I care about. I can't control it and make it go away when it shows up. I don't listen to reason like that. I don't see the people in front of me the same way when I'm like that.

The psychiatrist asked me today if my siblings felt like I do. I said no, I'm like the barrier, the oldest child who was dragged around and put to work, and I was usually the one helping dad through animals screaming in pain and sometimes dying horribly because he refused to waste money on a vet. I was there in the agony with our helpless slaves while my dad seemed to feel nothing and only cared if the babies made it or the mother couldn't make it and stuff. Sometimes I watch animals going through natural birthings on youtube, and even though you can tell it's really hard, I never hear the screams like what went on in our barn.

I was the one who assisted my dad so no one else had to. I know it's common for farmers to help their livestock, but many of them call the vet or put an animal down. My dad experimented. He tried things. If he couldn't force something to work, he'd let nature take its course the long hard way.

One particularly bad day I walked outside, picked up a heavy little pipe, and killed 3 cats before my dad could get to them. I had studied cat physiology on my own, made a calculated guess at angle, swiftness, and control just between the skull and neck, and killed all 3 instantly. No struggle, no crazy flopping around. My dad came around the corner and was amazed. How did I do that so cleanly? He asked me if they jerked around, how long it took them to die, and then asked me to show him how I did it. So I demonstrated on another cat, which delighted him because it was like magic, tossed down the pipe, and then walked off disgusted and didn't talk to him the rest of the day. As far as I was concerned, he was an idiot, and everything he touched suffered sooner or later. No, the other kids didn't see that.

See, it didn't matter if I had a favorite cat. It didn't matter if I wanted to keep one. It didn't matter if they were beautiful or cute or my friend. All that mattered that day was I beat him to it so they wouldn't suffer.

When I hear of handlers training kids to be assassins by first having them kill a beloved pet, I just roll my eyes.

I have dealt out death, and once you reach a place where you can turn it off and do that without feeling anything, there is a place in your soul no one can touch.

Just because I haven't murdered a human doesn't mean I'm not capable. That sounds trite, because we see people killing each other constantly on TV or in games. But I can tell the ones who would be sick talking it up like big stuff.

Something inside me shows up sometimes and I think the people who see it instinctively know somehow that I wouldn't get sick. Not when I'm like that.

Is this enough writing for tonight?

I still haven't cried that my dad died.