Kittens and Zoloft
If it were up to me, every depressed person would be given a kitten during the course of their treatment. Maybe not at the beginning, when they still don’t know that there is a way to live other than struggling from breath to breath. But later – when the medication or the meditation or the therapy has begun to take take hold, the pain begins to empty from the corners of the mind, and there is space where there was never space before, time that is not devoted to suffering or being numb – I believe that a kitten can be a very good thing indeed.
Note that I suggest a kitten and not a puppy. I don't think that a depressed person should ever commit themselves to something that will interrupt their sleep or destroy a physical space that they consider sacred and safe, and a puppy will, without malice or intention, do both.
But a kitten requires very little and gives very much. A kitten needs only to be fed, occasionally taken to the vet. A kitten – miracle of all miracles – will begin to use a litter box almost as soon as you show it how. A kitten respects your space. Its demands are quiet and unobtrusive, and can be easily fit into the cracks of your own raging, hungry needs – for sleep, for peace, for sanity.
Depressed people stand on the edge of a horrible blackness, and their fears and needs crowd behind them, whispering and nudging. Kittens teach balance. They nap, and then they wake up. They eat, and then they stop. They fight, and then they cuddle. They play, and then they nap again. For a kitten, a nap is not a battle lost, not a withdrawal from sensation, not a symptom or a trigger or a weakness. A nap is what you do when you’re tired. A nap is what you do until you feel like getting up again.
I would have written this column earlier today, but I had a kitten in my lap who was asleep and happy to be so. Kittens teach you patience. Kittens teach you how to fit your needs in with someone else’s.
When I knew I would begin to lose the words I wanted if I didn’t start typing, I finally moved her. She looked at me and blinked, and then lay back down on the chair. Kittens teach you that sometimes it’s OK to push someone away.
After I’d been sitting at my computer for a few minutes, she came over and climbed up in my lap. Kittens teach you that when you push someone away, usually they will come back.
They lick each other’s backs and heads, and snuggle together to go to sleep. When I am holding one of them, sometimes they reach out a lazy paw and rest in on my cheek. They always remember and remind of the pleasure of being touched.
People say that the problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats. This is ridiculous. Cats have even more to offer than kittens. Cats are like all of the beautiful, graceful middle aged ladies that I know who make it look so good to grow older. They know how to love and give without sacrificing themselves, how to be affectionate without being desperate, how to be self-deprecating without being self-debasing.
On weekdays, my kittens wake me up before my alarm so that I will get up and feed them. Even if I go back to bed right afterwards, I look out the window and see the sun. Kittens teach that, even when you sleep through them, there are mornings.
Note that I suggest a kitten and not a puppy. I don't think that a depressed person should ever commit themselves to something that will interrupt their sleep or destroy a physical space that they consider sacred and safe, and a puppy will, without malice or intention, do both.
But a kitten requires very little and gives very much. A kitten needs only to be fed, occasionally taken to the vet. A kitten – miracle of all miracles – will begin to use a litter box almost as soon as you show it how. A kitten respects your space. Its demands are quiet and unobtrusive, and can be easily fit into the cracks of your own raging, hungry needs – for sleep, for peace, for sanity.
Depressed people stand on the edge of a horrible blackness, and their fears and needs crowd behind them, whispering and nudging. Kittens teach balance. They nap, and then they wake up. They eat, and then they stop. They fight, and then they cuddle. They play, and then they nap again. For a kitten, a nap is not a battle lost, not a withdrawal from sensation, not a symptom or a trigger or a weakness. A nap is what you do when you’re tired. A nap is what you do until you feel like getting up again.
I would have written this column earlier today, but I had a kitten in my lap who was asleep and happy to be so. Kittens teach you patience. Kittens teach you how to fit your needs in with someone else’s.
When I knew I would begin to lose the words I wanted if I didn’t start typing, I finally moved her. She looked at me and blinked, and then lay back down on the chair. Kittens teach you that sometimes it’s OK to push someone away.
After I’d been sitting at my computer for a few minutes, she came over and climbed up in my lap. Kittens teach you that when you push someone away, usually they will come back.
They lick each other’s backs and heads, and snuggle together to go to sleep. When I am holding one of them, sometimes they reach out a lazy paw and rest in on my cheek. They always remember and remind of the pleasure of being touched.
People say that the problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats. This is ridiculous. Cats have even more to offer than kittens. Cats are like all of the beautiful, graceful middle aged ladies that I know who make it look so good to grow older. They know how to love and give without sacrificing themselves, how to be affectionate without being desperate, how to be self-deprecating without being self-debasing.
On weekdays, my kittens wake me up before my alarm so that I will get up and feed them. Even if I go back to bed right afterwards, I look out the window and see the sun. Kittens teach that, even when you sleep through them, there are mornings.
posted by be-elle | 1:14 PM
2 Comments:
I couldn't agree more. Kittens not drugs!
Well, my view is more kittens AND drugs. I'm a big fan of anti-depressants.
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