I Could Not Kill My Fish

He was just little guy swimming around and doing his thing. All it took was a dash of neglect to infect my little fishy friend, and he caught the fin rot. He came to me that way. When my mother abandoned her turtles with me, a few days later she showed up with these goddamn fish.

A boy fish and a girl fish, though, they were both boy fish. Two Siamese fighting fishies, ferocious little bettas. One was more blue, the other more pink so my heinous heteronormative mind assigned the blue one as “him/he” and the pink one as “her/she.” Shame on me.

I will just say I was too busy curing these sick fishies to break barriers. She healed up quickly. She was spunky from the first water change, the poor thing. Her name is Happy now. She is happy now.

He was happier, for sure. After acquiring late night red eyes from bright computer screens studying betta sickness varieties, I learned they needed way more space. They needed heat. Bettas are not little bowl hosts of the most boring circus show. Please remember that.

I comfort my selfish self with knowing he was happier at least for a bit before his rot receded more stealing that glorious fin of his. I tried all the suggestions: many water changes, heat and salt, and then went through a few different medications.

For five weeks we battled what was consuming him. The past five days I knew what I had to do, but I could not do it. His energy had depleted. No more happy bubbles were skimming the top of the water. The past five days he laid gasping at the bottom of his bowl, his “hospital tank.” I put an oxygen pump in there, kept him warm, and made sure to scoot the brine shrimp, his last couple of meals close enough to his mouth to effortlessly nibble. What a joke, though. What a heartless bitch.

When I would go to do it, my movement would make him dart around the tank, zig zags of will still within him, that’s what I told myself. He still had the will to live. It was not the time for the giving of permanent mercy.

But it was. I should have done it. Instead, he was miserable because I am a selfish creature. I could not bear to kill my fish so I let my fishy suffer.

In the event of a zombie apocalypse, somehow I know I could shoot my boyfriend between the eyes if it came down to it … but what about my cats? My turtles? Would I let them starve to death because I could not feed them a tricky supplemented supper that would put them in forever sleep?

I would not want pets in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Because they are not pets. They are my innocent and loyal little friends whom I love so much. And yet I could put a bullet between the eyes of my human friends, as quickly as my boyfriend if I *had* to. I don’t know why I am so sure, but I am surely not quite right for knowing I am correct in my hypothetical assessment.

I could not kill my fish, and I had the nerve to cry when he died the slow death, taking that last breath. It didn’t have to be so bad for him, his end of life. I should have swiftly eliminated that suffering, but I didn’t. I feel it is the equivalent of watching an animal cry on the side of the road after being hit by a car and doing nothing.

It’s far too easy to ignore what you cannot hear, and that is terribly unfortunate. Often times it is the silence that needs to make it to your ears with it’s powerful, wordless message. Animals cannot tell us what is wrong so we have to pay attention. Their whimpers are clues, but what about the little fishes that make no sounds at all? We really must try harder to be in tune with the quiet presence of the silent present.

And how the fuck do we do that? Pipe the fuck up and tell me. I feel like shit over this. And now I have visions of crying animals on the side of the road. Thanks, bitch. You idiot.

Hey Mania, Time To Check In. Bring Chocolate.

I am in an isolating bubble of  paranoia and distrust. There is a sharp pin dangling above me. It is cleverly tied to the end of a balloon string. I only need to reach for this tiny dagger to pop this round, clear, magnifying hell. I desperately need to be on my name brand medicine. lamigotrine is not lamictal.

I let my stash run low and my reserves are the generic and this is the one drug where I have noticed not everything has an equally helpful, more cost-effective side-kick. If cats could speak and drive, I would have three side-kicks.

If cats could speak and drive, I would just charm them to go do my work for me so I could stay at home and paint away my inconvenient sadness and loneliness and I would not ever again have to fend off any creeping resentment towards the majority of my human family that rather pop pain pills and judge me- calling me an uppidy bitch because I have an intelligent boyfriend, with a damn good job, who fucking rocks it, and provides me with a beautiful home I already feel unworthy to sleep in. But fuck me, right? Fuck me for making jewelry and pet-sitting instead of having a “real job”? Reality is a blur for me, how much of a part should I have in operating it? Do you get behind the wheel with someone who cannot see two feet in front of them? Fuckkk

I am so vile to them that I cannot seek comfort when other parts of my family cease to exist, death deserves attention, respect of a memory, or when people I love  go through hell and climb out like a warrior (which both makes me proud for them and ashamed of my own self,) or when that other side of the family gets fucking dangerously crazy in their own right and I need someone to talk to that KNOWS them, too. Sometimes, I need comfort. And the thing is, motherfuckers, 7/10 times you only need to give me a few minutes. My fucked up brain bounces back to the bright side of things at often inappropriate times, so put down your pill bottle and pick up your phone. Develop telepathy and get this message before I forget how to transmit.

Do not utilize your life-sustaining uterus, or you virile sperm count unless you are psychic and you know for a fact you wont end up hating your own offspring. And don’t you goddamn dare shame a bitch for choosing not to biologically stamp herself out when there are kids here who already need LOVE. Tell me it’s selfish to not want to shit out some babies, tell me that one more time, please… I am growing out my nails just to peel your face off.

Rage Against The Machine: Anger is a gift.

It is motivation, something uncomfortable that forces movements for change, and I prefer anger to pathetic, worthless, unproductive, unappreciative sadness. I embrace my anger, I shun my disgusting self-pity. To each his own? Really? Then respect that in all regards. I am not strong with depression. I wish I were, obviously. But you know what, I sure as hell don’t wrinkle my nose when others experience it. We are human beings and we are in this shit together. That is the only thing that keep me from gaining height, turning grey, having my eyes transform to giant black orbs, and returning to the mother-ship.

But not really! Because guess what? People who are wear a name-tag of mental illness, it’s uncanny, they too, can be figurative in rants.

I know what I need to do, but I don’t do it. It’s nonsense. Go get my fucking proper meds, just do it, just fucking do it.

I am a lizard. Stress scales my body and my rashes are my unwanted mask.

When pot is legal and you can self-medicate without breaking the fucking law, and stoner-taxies become a thing, many of us will function much, much better. But until then, let us enjoy the stigma and paranoia and refrain from helpful herb. Make us masochists.

Thank you, internet, for your shoulder. I feel a bit better. Maybe my side-kick cats popped my bubble with their claws.

Please be so kind and gentle with your animal-friends. Love them, respect them. They worship you, trust you, and they forgive your faults.