Cat’s Run Away, Part One: I am Stupid…

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Beforehand, you must understand two things:

First: I am mad. Actually, make that MAD. And I always will be.

Second: What I did even surprised me. I have never done anything like this before. Hence why I am freaking out.

Alright, I’m only freaking out a tiny bit. Excuse me for being emotionally sterile…

So I ran away from home.

Here’s what happened. In chronological order. And in several instalments.

I suppose it must’ve started the day before. Well, it was that that sort of inspired the idea. I suppose that the events that followed were sort of catalysts to the inevitable.

That day I got on the bus to go to school, and I was heading toward the back of the bus when I noticed what I thought was a corpse. It wasn’t moving, it smelt, and I was nearly terrified. Then I heard the corpse snore, and I realised, to my relief, that the corpse was in fact alive.

Then the transport officer came up to the living corpse, and told him to get off the bus. After waking him up, of course. The corpse refused. It was then that the transport officer threatened to call security who would forcibly take him off the bus.

I swear, the second the officer said ‘forcibly’, about ten girls took out their phones, ready to capture a fight on the bus.

And I was one of them.

Well, that’s not completely true. I was going to switch to camera mode on my iPad. Anyway, officer got off, bus went off, phones went away.

I was on the bus for about ten more minutes after that. And I had been sitting across from the homeless corpse. So I got to have a closer look at him.

He was young. Blonde hair, and I saw he had hazel eyes when he opened them.

He looked like he was in his teens, and he was rugged up in a rain jacket and baggy waterproof trackies.

And he was curled up on the back seat. Even when the driver went over a speed bump, he wasn’t stirred.

I also managed to figure a few things. Had this been a serial snoozer, he wouldn’t have been able to get on the bus in the first place.

Then I thought of all the people I had seen on the street, impervious to the wind, with their ragged, hardened skin. And yet they do not shelter in the CATs. This guy had soft looking skin, clean shaved. And he was sleeping on the bus.

I don’t think he has been homeless for very long.

Should’ve I said anything? Maybe. Looking back, I wanted to talk to him, ask him about himself. But I didn’t take that opportunity, to find out what it was like to be away from everyone you would’ve once held dear. I don’t know why he was there, because I didn’t ask. But if he were a runaway, then I missed my opportunity to know what it was like to do that.

Now we’re going to jump forward to the next day. BOOOOOOOING.

So I was cleaning my room. My mother came into the room.

Some people may already understand where this story is heading, but for others, I’ll fill it in anyway.

She yelled. A lot of things she yelled. I managed to pick up “Ungrateful”, “Never amount to anything” and “Respect”, or lack thereof.

So I went out of the house to what for now, I call the cubby house. Because it’s a house, but only the rooms have been built. So it’s essentially a cubby house.

I had my iPad and two books with me. So I read, and I danced, and I forgot my problems. Not crappy school coordinated dancing, but mad dancing that you do at raves, only I was by myself.

After two hours of singing a song from The Nightmare Before Christmas, (In this town, don’t we love it now! Everybody’s waiting for the next SURPRISE!) I went back. And my mother had locked me outside.

After about ten minutes, my brother came out. He had a smile bigger than a Cheshire cat on crack. And he told me gleefully that my mother had grounded me, and wanted me to give him my iPad, Facebook, and any sort of freedom I had. Because I had a much needed time out.

I told her as much when she came outside. Not that she heard any of it. I doubt she takes in anything that I say these days. But after she had left, I had some time to think.

And as all you imaginary readers know, thinking is a terrible thing.

I couldn’t stay with my mother right then. But there was no room with my friends, and I had no neighbours to stay with.

I was contemplating giving up, and pleading mother for the right to reenter, when all of a sudden, who should appear but my smug faced, shit eating brother?

He wanted my iPad.

He tackled me.

And I attacked him with a cat brush. A WIRE cat brush, which hurts when you slap people with it.

And then I ran.

Twenty minutes later, I kept repeating seven words to myself.

What. The. Bloody. Hell. Was. I. Thinking.

And guess who had the decency to turn up then?

“Fuck off Daniel,” I mumbled.

“I thought you could use the company.” He fell in pace beside me.

“Well, no. You were wrong.”

There was silence.

Äny idea where you’re going?” he asked me.

“City,” I said. “Then…I’m not sure.”

“Get to the police. They’ll tell you where you can go.”

“They’ve got better things to do that help a runaway,” I pointed out.

“Maybe. But this is your ass we are talking about. I wouldn’t like it if anything happened to it.”

I ignored Daniel. We walked another two hundred metres before he finally spoke again. And after he spoke, a different seven worded sentence consumed my brain.

Well, when I say Daniel spoke, he was actually singing.

Out of the blue, he started. And I will walk five hundred miles…”

“Fuck off.”

This was going to be a long night…

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WTF Cat Madigan???

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Ok, so this has been a mad and eventful day, and Cat Madigan needs a much needed rest. But here is essentially what has happened.

I am in a safety house.

Or a crisis home.

Or something mad as I am.

I needed a much needed break from my parents, most specifically my mother, and today I hit snapping point, and I ran away.

You think that’s mad? Here’s the stupid part.

I was without shoes. And I walked all the way to the city without shoes. Which is about….20km?

Yeah…I’m going to grow hobbit feet at the rate I’m at.

But yes. The journey here was incredibly random and weird, and it was an actual adventure. So I’ll probably deliver the whole story on the blog soon. Probably in parts. Maybe I’ll call it the Chronicles of the Mad Cat.

Best news of all, I’m allowed to see my friends still. Because they kick us out of the house during weekdays, because you’re meant to be going to school or uni or the like.

But I’d like to stay at the Crisis house for a time. You do your own laundry, cooking and cleaning, and you essentially become independent. Which I do need.

The Chronicles of the Mad Cat shall be put up as soon as I have time and energy to write it. It’ll be in parts, and hopefully everything will be fine.

Love Cat Madigan <3333

Mad Cat Artwork- Self Portrait

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Normally I make pictures for my friends for their birthdays, so considering how it was my birthday two weeks ago, I decided to make myself one.

It is red.

It scared my friend.

And I look ever so slightly satanic.

I love it.

Not so sure if you non existent viewers will, but if you want, leave feedback below in the comments, I’d greatly appreciate it.

Cat Madigan

Freak

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No, this post is not about how much I hate myself again. Please don’t go, non existent readers, I have few of you as it is. Besides, there is a modelling event for me to rant about.

If you had read one of my prior posts, I was doing a fitting for a parade (and playing The Zombie Apocalypse Survival Game). And said parade was two weeks ago. This post was written then, but as I had no Internet, I couldn’t post it. So let’s just pretended that this is me at the parade right now, shall we?

Right now, I am impatiently waiting for my order of spring rolls, ignoring the strange looks I’m getting. To be honest, if I saw someone with freakish supermodel makeup, I might stare too. Or maybe after this, I’d be used to the sight of freakish supermodel makeup, and I wouldn’t give that woman/man a second glance.

So when I arrived, I was promptly sent to the hair department. I’ve noticed a pattern among hair stylists; first, they rave on about how lovely my hair is. And then they promptly start to straighten it.

I have no problem with people straightening my hair actually. It’s far easier than having to straighten it myself- not that I ever straighten my hair; I can do better things in that time, such as watch an episode of Doctor Who, start a new art project, design a brutal murder on paper, write up another post for The Adventures Of Cat Madigan, or maybe even go for a run (LOL, no I don’t run). But what I find somewhat irritating is that while they were straightening my curly mop, girls with straight hair were getting their hair done similar to mine. It just seems so unnecessary, why would you do that if you already had a model with that hair? Gah….modelling logic. -__-

So then I got sent to makeup. They had two looks for the models; the smokey eye, which was borderline panda-eyes, or the ‘natural’ look, which I received. There is but one word I can use to describe this look. EYEBROWS. (Scratch that, I’ll add a few more.) MASSIVE. CATERPILLAR. EYEBROWS! Aaaaaargh!

Just, why. WHY is dinosaur sized eyebrows considered attractive? I mean, don’t get me wrong, some people look good that way. But that’s just it; some people look good. Others look like freaks of nature. One example: Cat Madigan. Cat Madigan just looks scary with gigantasaurus eyebrows. And yet they do it. Because it’s a trend, and trends are gospel. Or they wanted the beauty of the clothes to be the focus, rather than the beauty of the model.

Spring rolls are here. I shall update you later on the events of the show.
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I’m exhausted. And hungry.

Spring rolls had far too much pepper; nearly sweated off my ugly makeup. By the time I had finished them, I was nearly late.

Before, I ranted about how weird the makeup and hair people were. Now I think everyone involved in the designs were on drugs. Or they had to design for Lady Gaga and there was no going back from there. How one was meant to wear said clothes, I have no idea. I managed to somehow, but it was more difficult than it should’ve been to put on clothing.

Most of my time back stage was spent with a guy who for today (or at least I think it was only today, but for all I know he might do this all the time) was going to be a female model. I was sitting next to him in makeup as they were putting on his wig, and he and I were chatting away, talking about how weird the makeup was and the outfits we’d be wearing. Why do I always choose to hang around the weird people? imaginary readers might ask. Simple answer: normal people are boring. Plus they made me wear horrible makeup.

After sitting backstage in the massive faux suede overcoat I was going to display first, the show finally started. I was only displaying garments, so I got to watch the jewellery people go on first. One girl I knew was wearing a necklace made out of barbie doll heads. Another was modelling a cage like piece that covered her neck and half her face.

WHY Lady Gaga wasn’t at the show, looking at these pieces for inspiration, I have no idea. But if you’re reading this Lady Gaga, (you might be lost or something, I dunno) you should go next year! I’m sure you’ll love the designs.

My outfits were mostly normal though, or at least the ones I knew I was going to model were. Out of these, the first outfit was probably the one with the most strangeness: a white short dress with a grey cardigan and a giant suede overcoat which reached the floor. I actually liked the coat, I might even wear it…at home, when it’s cold and I can’t be stuffed getting a blanket.

Then I just wore a peach coloured dress, followed by a dark green coat with a long black dress. Then I found out that because one of the models canceled, I was wearing a fourth outfit.

It looked pretty at the time. It was silver and purple and long. Then I had to figure out how to put it on.

It took me two minutes to realise there was only one armhole. Then I had to figure out if it was an armhole, or if it was in fact for my head to go through. Fortunately, the designer who made this trippy thing turned up. It was meant to be an coat apparently. Which would be great, if you happened to be missing your left arm and you wanted it covered up.

Overall, the show was incredibly weird, but it all went smoothly, and it was pretty fun. It was also the first proper parade I had done; I used to belong to another agency specialising in younger models, and we often did parades at markets and stuff. But never stuff from designers before. Yes, there was a lot of freaky stuff there, but sometimes, freaky is good. Freaky can be fun, I grant Lady Gaga that. But I’d never go so far to wear a meat dress. No. Nonononononono.

I’m enjoying modelling at the moment; I’m feeling a lot more confident in myself from it, and it makes me pay more attention to how I look. Yes, I know that’s not always a good thing; look at today’s society, as if we could get any vainer! But it gives me motivation to pay attention to myself, because with my head, I’d probably have no motivation whatsoever to look pretty or at least decent if I didn’t have modelling. And appearances are important. Who wants to help someone who looks like a homeless person? That’s the sad truth. :(

Question of the Day: What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to wear? You might not do modelling, but everyone has worn something that has gained strange looks from people. Or it could just be something that you yourself thought was weird. I once had to wear a wedding dress and all I could think was that it weighed at least two tonnes and I was going to fall off the stage or fall through the stage. Neither of which I did, thank god. Hopefully it’s not my last time wearing a wedding dress. *sniff*, forever alone Cat…

So leave your imaginary comments below, and I shall see you later. It is now time for school, where I have a science assignment which I have not yet done, and a maths test which I have not yet studied for. Craaaaaaaap.

Mad Cat.

Well….this is awkward.

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A few days ago, I thought I had posted on this. Unfortunately, my stupid iPad must’ve had other ideas.

Well let’s post this now, shall we?

A friend once asked me (yes, I do have friends) “Cat, how do you get ideas for writing?”

It’s simple. I think too much.

Well, I suppose it’s not that simple. You see, when it comes to writing, I have at least two types of days. First type, is where I’m incredibly unstable, I can’t stay in Reality for too long, and my resulting Delusions give me all sorts of stuff to write about. I know I haven’t written too much on my Delusions, but there’s a lot of stuff I can write about them. It’s only that this blog is set in Reality, and in order to write in Reality, I need to stay in Reality, so I try to write about things in Reality as often as I can. That’s probably why I often sound like a whiny teenager most of the time.

Or I can have a day where something inspires me to write. For example, my school has a philosophy club, so that always gets my mind working about topics. Of course, this will lead me to overthinking everything, and then I end up having an argument with Daniel over it.

You know you’re insane when you start having debates with figments of your imagination.

I also like to look at Daily Prompts for inspiration, though I don’t want to rely on those too often, I’m predictable enough as it is. “Reality, Delusion, Daniel’s an ass, My friends are weird, Society is messed up, Reality, Daniel’s a pig, blah blah blah.”

But I find I can find inspiration from anything around me. My friends inspire me to talk about different types of people, and different problems facing the youth of today, (not that you’d actually want to hear about that sort of stuff, imaginary reader. You’re just here for the imaginary cookies). But inspiration can also come from books. And tv, but I like books as well.

For example, right now, I am in the school library reading, *trumpet entrance*, The Philosophy Book.

And for those non existent readers who get easily distracted by things I say, I’m in the library because the rest of my school is at Mass, and I was wearing the wrong shirt, so I’m here to ‘study’. Normally I’d have a big rant about this, but because it’s Mass, I’m going to let it pass for today. Philosophical pondering trumps Religious worship, sorry God.

It’s not that I don’t believe in a God, or a heaven for that matter. I just find it difficult to believe that there is a god that created us, knows everything, including how we think, and is still arrogant enough to punish us with hellfire if we don’t believe in him, especially since there’s not much evidence for us stupid humans. Or maybe he’s watching to see how many of us can actually work out that he exists, and he sends hypocrites to hell, rather than non believers.

Now I’m thinking about what goes on in hell.

Maybe…it’s like a live performance of Miley Cyrus at the VMA’s! Over and over and over…..

You Satan, are a sick bastard.

“Hey, Yahweh, we’ve got a new design for the new level of Hell. Behold….21st Century Earth.”

“It’s perfect! The generation with the worst taste in the history of the universe, 24/7, for the rest of eternity… >:)”

O_O This idea almost makes me want to go to church. Wait for meeeeeeeeeee!

I have gotten off track once again. What is it with me and getting as far away from the topic as humanly possible?

Now what was the original point?

Aha! That’s it! Inspiration!

Well I think the above gives you a fair idea about how I get ideas. One thing leads to another, and next thing, WORD VOMIT!

I wonder if God is a cat.

I’m going to shut up now.

It’s time for Question of the Day! Even though no one actually answers the question.

How does inspiration come to you? Do you get ideas from life in general, or do you read too much like me, and get stuck thinking the most random things ever, and then writing them up for the world to see? Or you can even give me a link to the post in the comments, showing me how messed up your thinking can be! Friends? ^_^

Also, at the moment, I’m considering writing like a story blog, by that I mean writing up a story chapter by chapter, on a blog. Not this one though, this one is specifically for my messed up mind. On the other hand, I may need actual readers first. Dammit…

Ok, Mad Cat out.

Therapy in my Madness

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“I don’t like her,” Daniel tells me.

“Oh shut up.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Well, you don’t get a say, she’s my therapist.”

“She called me a cancer!”

“Well you ARE a cancer. In a way.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

We ignored eachother for the rest of the day after that. He’d still pop up, but he wouldn’t talk to me: he’d merely stick his tongue out at me and pretend not to pay attention. He’s a figment of my imagination, yet he expresses emotion more openly than I ever would, well, at least when I’m in my right mind.

That was the therapy session I had last week. And yesterday I had another.

This time, Lee had asked me to write a reflection about how I felt about the session. So now I am on the bus, and I’m writing it now.

The session was about expressing emotion, and how I had difficulty doing this.
Some points that came up were about how I couldn’t really express how I felt at home, and I was not allowed to have an opinion of my own, due to my parent’s philosophy of how children should be seen but not heard.
Lee had pointed out to me that whenever she asked questions about what I thought a parent should be like, or what sort of relationship I’d like with my parents, I would hesitate, and say “I’m not sure.”
Essentially, Lee suggested that I wasn’t getting enough emotional support at home, and that may be the cause of my delusions.

Ok, that’s good enough. But the point of this exercise was to record my emotions about this. That’s the hard part.

It was at this point that Daniel popped in.

“I’m in the middle of therapy homework, go away,” I tell him.

“I want to help,” he says.

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not? Out of the both of us, I can figure your emotions better than you can.”

“Says who?” I retort.

“Says me.”

“You’re one of my Delusions,” I say. “I shouldn’t be relying on you for support.”

“Then who should you rely on?” He pops his feet up on the seat in front. “As far as I know, your home life isn’t the most emotionally supportive place.”

“There’s my friends. I have them at least, thankyou-” I suddenly recognise the phrase he used. “You were there!” I exclaim.

“Where?”

“At therapy! You were there!”

Daniel laughs. “Well, in my defence, it against my will.”

“How so?”

“When she brought up your emotional immaturity, I simply had to listen,” he answered. He turns to face me. “So, lets begin.”

My head flashes towards him. “Wait, what now?”

“Doctor Daniel is here to talk.”

“What?” I glare at him. “No.”

“It’ll be good for you!”

“No.”

Daniel crossed his arms. “What if I told you I were a doctor?”

“The only doctors I trust are Lee and David Tennant.”

“What about Matt Smith

“Lee, David Tennant and Matt Smith.” I think for a moment. “And Chris Eccleston.”

“Good to know.” Daniel moves closer to me. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to help you.”

“What part of fuck off is so difficult for you to understand?” I hiss.

“What part of I’m here to help is so difficult for you to understand?” he answers.

“Forgive me, but I do not need what you call ‘help’,” I tell him angrily. “Now go away.”

For a while he’s silent. He just watches me get more and more frustrated as I try to write down how I’m feeling, with a big smirk on his face. Emotions are irritating. Daniel’s irritating. The fact I have currently have no Internet is irritating.

“And you,” I voice aloud. “Looking over my shoulder while I’m writing is particularly irritating.”

He grins. “Irritating’s my middle name.” He still hasn’t given up. “So now will you let me help?”

I refuse to answer him.

After I get off the bus, leaving Daniel there, or so I thought, I go to Hay Street to get some tea, before making my way to the food court, so I could finish my homework. I’m typing, and there’s a voice behind me.

“When Lee said you had no support at home, how did you react?”

I roll my eyes. “I told you to go away.”

“We’ve been over this before. I don’t listen.

“…”

“Now answer my question.”

“Why should I?”

He groans. “Silly girl, don’t you want to finish your homework?”,

I grimace. “I can’t,” I admit.

“And why not?”

“Because how am I meant to understand how I feel?!” I snap at him. By this time, a lot of people are giving me looks, so I take out my phone and pretend that I’m talking to the person on the other line.

Daniel doesn’t give up. “Ordinary people can.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Point taken,” he concedes. He thinks for a moment. “But, you do know what you think about something, yes?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously. “Where are you going with this?”

“It’s only an observation,” he assures me. “But if you think about what you think, you can surely figure out how you feel.”

“And talking to you will help me figure it out?” I retort bitterly.

He indicates what I’ve currently done. “I don’t see much being done here.”

I groan. Daniel already knows I’ve consented; he’s grinning like an idiot. “You sir, are an ASS,” I tell him.

Daniel merely rolls his eyes. “Go through everything she brought up,” he instructs. “Tell me what you thought about it, and then how you feel about what you thought.”

We start talking about my family’s ‘lack of emotional stability’.

“She’s right, you know,” he tells me. “How much can you tell your family?”

“Next to nothing,” I confirm. “But how much could you confide in your parents?”

He grinned. “Same as you. Less actually; I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Are they dead?” I ask.

He shrugs, as if his parents were as insignificant as the weather. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says lightly. “So why can’t you talk to them?”

I think. And then I grimace. “Every time I try to, they don’t listen,” I tell him. “And if they do, they’d later use it against me.”

Daniel frowns, confused. “How so?”

“If they knew the full extent of what was going on with,” I tap my temple to indicate my growing insanity. “They’d keep me locked up, or at least in a similar situation. I wouldn’t be allowed to go out anywhere, or do anything. I’d be the insane girl, locked up in an asylum created by them.”

“I see. And how does this make you feel?” Daniel adopts a calm, stereotypical psychiatrist-like falsetto.

I roll my eyes. “Angry, I suppose,” I tell him. “But…also hopelessness.” At Daniel’s look of confusion, I explain. “They’re never going to change. And I can’t make them change. I will never be able to rely on them.”

“Next question,” Daniel says. “How much do you love your parents?”

I remember Lee asking this question. “I thought a lot about that,” I recall. “I was confused for a while…”

“And now?”

“…still confused, but I know what I think.”

“That’s what we’re aiming for,” says Daniel. “What about your father, how much do you love him?”

“…I told Kim I love him for he is my father,” I say slowly. “I’ve had a better think about it now though.”

“And?”

I take a deep breath. “My father is a pain in the ass,” I say. “But he understands me. We think alike, we react logically to situations. And we’re both interested in history, how people behave.” I look up at Daniel. “I can love him for those reasons. He understands me, and I like to think that I can rely on him for some support, which is more than I can say for my mother.”

“And what of her?”

“…”

“Answer the question.”

“…I cannot tell my mother anything without her using it against me,” I admit. “She criticises me on a daily basis, and that’s the least of it. She refuses to listen to my arguments; her word is gospel. Our outlooks…they’re far too different. And like I said, she won’t change.” I shake my head. “But she’s my mother. And therefore, I cannot not love her.”

Daniel frowns for a moment. “Your therapist asked you if you had met your mother by chance, on the street, and she was only a complete stranger, would you still want to know her? You had no answer then, but now that you’ve thought about it…”

“Let me think on it.” I’m typing up everything on the reflection thus far, and by the time I’ve done, I have my answer. “My mother is good fifty percent of the time,” I say. “But the rest of the time, I find myself wanting someone else. One who would love me without judging me.” I inhale, and for the first time today, I know how I feel immediately. I feel dread. “If my mother was a stranger, I wouldn’t want to know her,” I whisper. “Not as a friend anyway. I wouldn’t trust her not to turn on me.”

Daniel’s arm goes around me. “It’s like a coin flip,” he says to me. “There’s half of them that’s good, and makes you feel horrible at the thought of hurting them. And on the other side of the coin, they make you feel pain, and you want nothing more than to just get away.”

For a moment, I’m just looking at Daniel’s face. His eyes look green at the moment, the same colour as my blazer. Sometimes they look gold, like an autumn leaf, or grey like a cloud. Sometimes they even look blue, though when you focus, it turns out it’s only a different shade of green, a trick constructed by all that surrounds him.

They’re my eyes. My eyes match neither my mother’s or my father’s, they’re uniquely mine. And I see myself when I see Daniel, and our matching eyes. But he says everything I can’t, loud and clear. He’s arrogant, he often torments me, but then he turns around and saves me when I need it most.

Can you get to a point where you actually care for someone who’s a figment of your imagination?

I take that moment to run, and for whatever reason he has, he doesn’t follow, this strange delusion of mine.
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Another Daily Prompt Challenge. I read this after I had my appointment with Lee, and I decided to write this up.

We had talked about things like how I believed a mother should act toward her child, and I found myself making contrasts between my mother and how I would be toward my child. The more I think, the less I have in common with my parents, and sometimes I worry what would happen if I distanced myself from them all together.

To see the newest dpChallenge, check the link below.
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/16/writing-challenge-dialogue/

And Internet is finally back, thank god.

Mad Cat.

Therapy in my Madness

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“I don’t like her,” Daniel tells me.

“Oh shut up.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Well, you don’t get a say, she’s my therapist.”

“She called me a cancer!”

“Well you ARE a cancer. In a way.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

We ignored eachother for the rest of the day after that. He’d still pop up, but he wouldn’t talk to me: he’d merely stick his tongue out at me and pretend not to pay attention. He’s a figment of my imagination, yet he expresses emotion more openly than I ever would, well, at least when I’m in my right mind.

That was the therapy session I had last week. And yesterday I had another.

This time, Lee had asked me to write a reflection about how I felt about the session. So now I am on the bus, and I’m writing it now.

The session was about expressing emotion, and how I had difficulty doing this.
Some points that came up were about how I couldn’t really express how I felt at home, and I was not allowed to have an opinion of my own, due to my parent’s philosophy of how children should be seen but not heard.
Lee had pointed out to me that whenever she asked questions about what I thought a parent should be like, or what sort of relationship I’d like with my parents, I would hesitate, and say “I’m not sure.”
Essentially, Lee suggested that I wasn’t getting enough emotional support at home, and that may be the cause of my delusions.

Ok, that’s good enough. But the point of this exercise was to record my emotions about this. That’s the hard part.

It was at this point that Daniel popped in.

“I’m in the middle of therapy homework, go away,” I tell him.

“I want to help,” he says.

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not? Out of the both of us, I can figure your emotions better than you can.”

“Says who?” I retort.

“Says me.”

“You’re one of my Delusions,” I say. “I shouldn’t be relying on you for support.”

“Then who should you rely on?” He pops his feet up on the seat in front. “As far as I know, your home life isn’t the most emotionally supportive place.”

“There’s my friends. I have them at least, thankyou-” I suddenly recognise the phrase he used. “You were there!” I exclaim.

“Where?”

“At therapy! You were there!”

Daniel laughs. “Well, in my defence, it against my will.”

“How so?”

“When she brought up your emotional immaturity, I simply had to listen,” he answered. He turns to face me. “So, lets begin.”

My head flashes towards him. “Wait, what now?”

“Doctor Daniel is here to talk.”

“What?” I glare at him. “No.”

“It’ll be good for you!”

“No.”

Daniel crossed his arms. “What if I told you I were a doctor?”

“The only doctors I trust are Lee and David Tennant.”

“What about Matt Smith?”

“Lee, David Tennant and Matt Smith.” I think for a moment. “And Chris Eccleston.”

“Good to know.” Daniel moves closer to me. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to help you.”

“What part of fuck off is so difficult for you to understand?” I hiss.

“What part of I’m here to help is so difficult for you to understand?” he answers.

“Forgive me, but I do not need what you call ‘help’,” I tell him angrily. “Now go away.”

For a while he’s silent. He just watches me get more and more frustrated as I try to write down how I’m feeling, with a big smirk on his face. Emotions are irritating. Daniel’s irritating. The fact I have currently have no Internet is irritating.

“And you,” I voice aloud. “Looking over my shoulder while I’m writing is particularly irritating.”

He grins. “Irritating’s my middle name.” He still hasn’t given up. “So now will you let me help?”

I refuse to answer him.

After I get off the bus, leaving Daniel there, or so I thought, I go to Hay Street to get some tea, before making my way to the food court, so I could finish my homework. I’m typing, and there’s a voice behind me.

“When Lee said you had no support at home, how did you react?”

I roll my eyes. “I told you to go away.”

“We’ve been over this before. I don’t listen.

“…”

“Now answer my question.”

“Why should I?”

He groans. “Silly girl, don’t you want to finish your homework?”,

I grimace. “I can’t,” I admit.

“And why not?”

“Because how am I meant to understand how I feel?!” I snap at him. By this time, a lot of people are giving me looks, so I take out my phone and pretend that I’m talking to the person on the other line.

Daniel doesn’t give up. “Ordinary people can.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Point taken,” he concedes. He thinks for a moment. “But, you do know what you think about something, yes?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously. “Where are you going with this?”

“It’s only an observation,” he assures me. “But if you think about what you think, you can surely figure out how you feel.”

“And talking to you will help me figure it out?” I retort bitterly.

He indicates what I’ve currently done. “I don’t see much being done here.”

I groan. Daniel already knows I’ve consented; he’s grinning like an idiot. “You sir, are an ASS,” I tell him.

Daniel merely rolls his eyes. “Go through everything she brought up,” he instructs. “Tell me what you thought about it, and then how you feel about what you thought.”

We start talking about my family’s ‘lack of emotional stability’.

“She’s right, you know,” he tells me. “How much can you tell your family?”

“Next to nothing,” I confirm. “But how much could you confide in your parents?”

He grinned. “Same as you. Less actually; I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Are they dead?” I ask.

He shrugs, as if his parents were as insignificant as the weather. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says lightly. “So why can’t you talk to them?”

I think. And then I grimace. “Every time I try to, they don’t listen,” I tell him. “And if they do, they’d later use it against me.”

Daniel frowns, confused. “How so?”

“If they knew the full extent of what was going on with,” I tap my temple to indicate my growing insanity. “They’d keep me locked up, or at least in a similar situation. I wouldn’t be allowed to go out anywhere, or do anything. I’d be the insane girl, locked up in an asylum created by them.”

“I see. And how does this make you feel?” Daniel adopts a calm, stereotypical psychiatrist-like falsetto.

I roll my eyes. “Angry, I suppose,” I tell him. “But…also hopelessness.” At Daniel’s look of confusion, I explain. “They’re never going to change. And I can’t make them change. I will never be able to rely on them.”

“Next question,” Daniel says. “How much do you love your parents?”

I remember Lee asking this question. “I thought a lot about that,” I recall. “I was confused for a while…”

“And now?”

“…still confused, but I know what I think.”

“That’s what we’re aiming for,” says Daniel. “What about your father, how much do you love him?”

“…I told Kim I love him for he is my father,” I say slowly. “I’ve had a better think about it now though.”

“And?”

I take a deep breathe. “My father is a pain in the ass,” I say. “But he understands me. We think alike, we react logically to situations. And we’re both interested in history, how people behave.” I look up at Daniel. “I can love him for those reasons. He understands me, and I like to think that I can rely on him for some support, which is more than I can say for my mother.”

“And what of her?”

“…”

“Answer the question.”

“…I cannot tell my mother anything without her using it against me,” I admit. “She criticises me on a daily basis, and that’s the least of it. She refuses to listen to my arguments; her word is gospel. Our outlooks…they’re far too different. And like I said, she won’t change.” I shake my head. “But she’s my mother. And therefore, I cannot not love her.”

Daniel frowns for a moment. “Your therapist asked you if you had met your mother by chance, on the street, and she was only a complete stranger, would you still want to know her? You had no answer then, but now that you’ve thought about it…”

“Let me think on it.” I’m typing up everything on the reflection thus far, and by the time I’ve done, I have my answer. “My mother is good fifty percent of the time,” I say. “But the rest of the time, I find myself wanting someone else. One who would love me without judging me.” I inhale, and for the first time today, I know how I feel immediately. I feel dread. “If my mother was a stranger, I wouldn’t want to know her,” I whisper. “Not as a friend anyway. I wouldn’t trust her not to turn on me.”

Daniel’s arm goes around me. “It’s like a coin flip,” he says to me. “There’s half of them that’s good, and makes you feel horrible at the thought of hurting them. And on the other side of the coin, they make you feel pain, and you want nothing more than to just get away.”

For a moment, I’m just looking at Daniel’s face. His eyes look green at the moment, the same colour as my blazer. Sometimes they look gold, like an autumn leaf, or grey like a cloud. Sometimes they even look blue, though when you focus, it turns out it’s only a different shade of green, a trick constructed by all that surrounds him.

They’re my eyes. My eyes match neither my mother’s or my father’s, they’re uniquely mine. And I see myself when I see Daniel, and our matching eyes. But he says everything I can’t, loud and clear. He’s arrogant, he often torments me, but then he turns around and saves me when I need it most.

Can you get to a point where you actually care for someone who’s a figment of your imagination?

I take that moment to run, and for whatever reason he has, he doesn’t follow, this strange delusion of mine.
________________________________________________________________________________

Another Daily Prompt Challenge. I read this after I had my appointment with Lee, and I decided to write this up.

We had talked about things like how I believed a mother should act toward her child, and I found myself making contrasts between my mother and how I would be toward my child. The more I think, the less I have in common with my parents, and sometimes I worry what would happen if I distanced myself from them all together.

To see the newest dpChallenge, check the link below.
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/16/writing-challenge-dialogue/

And Internet is finally back, thank god.

Mad Cat.