Sprinkle Chaos

I call that picture “the moment before the crash”. Or perhaps “Really? That’s where you’re going to sit while I have breakfast?” And yes, before you say anything (you wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, and he’s reading over my shoulder!) that cat is a little chonky. Mostly because I’ve been feeding Havey whenever he demands it (twenty one and losing weight fast) and he has one or two bites, then leaves the rest for his accomplices. Who are getting rounder by the day. This too shall pass, right?

That vase is the successor of my beloved Koi vase which rests in pieces until I have time to kintsugi it. This one was purchased for two reasons only: It’s blue and white AND it’s heavy as the dickens, so the little terror hasn’t sent it careening yet.

And if you take in the previous two paragraphs, you’re probably asking yourself: Sarah, why do you put yourself through this?

There are many, many answers. Older son suggested “masochism” and several people — particularly considering the advent of the hyper-smart, very people engaged, full of mischief Misoites (Indy, Circe and Muse) in my life — have answered flat out “insanity.”

But it’s not, you know? They are a calculated addition to my life, one that keeps me what passes for sane around these parts, and more importantly, keep me getting up in the morning and doing things, including writing fiction (And writing this blog.)

But Sarah, you say, how can three (not so) little cats keep you writing? What do they even have to do with you getting up in the morning? Don’t you have a husband and sons for that? And a house that needs cleaned? And stared novels that need finished?

Well, yes…. And yet–

Let’s start from where I am: I am a chronic depressive, forever skating on the rim of a deep crater of depression. Sometimes going one or two rings inside, which is where the writing stops and the curling up under furniture starts.

I don’t want to be medicated. Partly because either I’m very different from other people, or other people tolerate side effects that floor me with absolutely no problem, but the fact is I’ve never taken a medicine that doesn’t have some sort of “what now?” symptoms. Adderal makes me b*tchy enough that even I don’t want to live with me. Vyvanse is great, but it turns off the writing, as though it were a switch and it just goes “click” off. Oh, I can still write these posts. But the fiction dies before being born. Then there’s various anti-histamines. I’ve found one — finally — that makes me sleepy but allows me to write: xyzal. (My allergist found this report interesting, as according to him it’s a “cleaner” versions of allegra, which still, like all the other ones just turns off the WORDS. Not the writing. I still have stories. I just can’t put them in words. it makes posts very hard too.) But heck, even your humble ibuprofen seems to have weird effects if I stay on it. (Mostly it makes me incredibly sleepy. It acts exactly like sleeping pills. It makes no sense.) So, I’m not about to try to fix the depression with medications. Heck, I’ve been known to avoid pain killers after major surgery because I resent what they do to my mind.

That means I manage it. And because I’ve been managing my depression since before I had words to call it that, you could say my entire life is designed around it. It’s part of the reason that — arguably — we’ve always bought houses a little above what we rationally should have. One of the weird things I only recently identified is that I must have AT LEAST one room in the house that I love; that makes me happy just going into it. And why I actually spend precious time decorating and trying to make things look purty. And did, even when I had two toddlers and was trying to break into writing.

But that gets into who I am: I teeter forever between being over-managed, ie having a life that runs like clockwork, and trying to stave off chaos with unavailing and frantic activity, while my life falls apart around me.

Of the two I much prefer the first, of course, which is where I tend to fall, once I’m up from the latest illness, and not preparing for a con (Or actually while preparing for a con. Yesterday I cleaned and organized, because the house was getting to me.)

The problem is that left to my own devices I arrange things so that they are incredibly organized. Like…. so organized in terms of my life, that I get up at the same time, eat the same thing, do exactly the same actions every day.

If you’re going “oh, bliss” you might be slightly on the spectrum. Which, I will grant you so am I, which is why I tend to that. BUT–

But at some point you get up and are going through your routine and realize all the joy has drained out of your life. And you don’t know why.

When this happened, the kids were still living at home, but were both in college, both self-sufficient adults (except for the inevitable “mom, I thought we still had cereal?”) And my life had become a clockwork, ticking beauty of scheduling.

We all know the thing to do for that, right? Add Toddler. Let’s say that the time of life wasn’t conducive for that, besides my having the fertility of a small rock. In the Sahara. At the peak of Summer.

… At the time I added something else, which took away some time but helped in other ways.

BUT when faced with the same issue a few years ago, I added the current crop of cats. Look, cats are ideal for adding just a slight sprinkle of chaos — okay, the Misoites might have meant overshooting — because they are mobile, cute, get into things but aren’t going to — for instance — eat a sofa, and will make you smile with their insanity.

It doesn’t have to be cats, though. During a particularly stressful part of my life, having derpfish on his tiny aquarium on my desk, glaring at me because “where are my food pellets, hooman?” was immensely cheering and took away from the sterile quality of an over-ordered life.

For that matter, my husband spent ten years tending a cantankerous (And now enormous) cactus in a corner of his office.

The point is that it’s something alive with the potential to give you at least tiny surprises, and which pulls you out from the tendency to over-order your life.

Left to our own devices, being slightly on the spectrum and very work focused, Dan and I would create utterly sterile lives, where we get up at the same time, eat the same things, work at the same desks side by side, eat the same dinner, go to bed. There’s reassurance in that too, but after a while it starts feeling like you’re just a cog in the machine the day has become.

Now we have some critters who will make us take unscheduled breaks because the belly must be petted (like the spice must flow, but warmer and more fuzzy. Okay, find, and chonky.) And this morning I found that, the dry food having run out in the dispenser, Indy had unplugged it both at the plug in and from the wall. (Why he thought that would help is another question. Or maybe he was just mad at it.) Which is annoying, but also amusing because WHAT EVEN?

And minutes ago Circe was walking around talking to herself, which she does on the regular.

Now, yes, if you’re of an age and situation to do this, kids do the same and are, arguably, more rewarding. But kids will also worry you more. (I know. Mine still do.)

Cats — though note I’m side eyeing Indy who is reading this over my shoulder as I type — rarely grow up to be ax murderers — lack of opposable thumbs — and you don’t worry about their careers and their relationships and what are they doing now? They’re just cats. As long as you keep them from chewing electrical cords, removing child locks from cabinets (I still have no idea what he did to the lock for the under-sink cabinet) and attempting to fix your computer (okay, that’s just indie) they are a safe outlet for chaos, and something you can love too. Because you want to love the thing that bring chaos.

And chaos is absolutely necessary, at least if you’re some sort of a creative. Because otherwise life becomes clean, ordered, and profoundly sterile.