The Mirror

I'm standing naked in front of the mirror.

I pinch my skin. I see where his hands used to run down my back, grab my shoulders, pin my arms to my sides. I wrote an article today about abusive relationships in popular culture--how we, as women, learn that it's okay to be abused. I hate my body because of abuse. I am learning to love it again. But when I see him I get a sick feeling in my stomach, a fear that I swallowed whole so long ago I don't know how to keep it from festering up and dominating me again. It's like swallowing ice cubes. You can feel it the whole way down. It leaves you shivering in every place, and cold and empty inside.

I pull on my pajamas and jump into bed. I have a friend who told me that she is still scared of monsters under the bed, that every night when she goes to sleep she turns off the light and does a running jump into bed to make sure nothing can get her. It made me smile. But I understand the fear. I still sleep with a teddy bear. I like to hold something as I sleep. To remember that I'm not alone when I'm vulnerable.

That's why I like cats.

That might seem odd, but cats never leave you--even when you might want them to. They climb up and cuddle up, and if you ignore them they have no problem laying on your face until you show them the love and respect they deserve. I've never seen more assertive creatures; they know what they need and they ask for it. They don't take no for an answer. And they sure as hell don't put up with abuse. They'll claw your eyes out and eat them, then flick their tails and storm off to another family who will love them and treat them right.
Maybe I should be like a cat.

I look in the mirror as I finish yawning. I could purr in my warm and cozy bed. Maybe I am already like a cat, I have just been trained to ignore my claws. Maybe all I need to do is dig down deep, eat my fish, climb my trees, roll in the grass, steal all the covers and know that even though I'm prissy I am loved.

That sounds like a plan to me.
I'll be a cat.