At this point, I think I’m kinda done trying to keep things alive.
If I can barely keep myself alive, why try to raise a cat? A dog? A hamster? A guinea pig? A succulent? A bird?
And the worst part is, when I came home an hour ago and found my beautiful pet parakeet huddling in a corner of the cage motionless, my first action was to scream for my mom and my second action was to not feel.
I don’t mean not-feeling as in go numb from pain or sadness or whatever crappy feeling I should be experiencing. Actually, no, I do feel crappy. I feel crappy for not becoming overcome with grief or going into a slight depression like I had when my cat died last March. I feel crappy because no matter how many times my mom assures me it’s not my fault, that I didn’t kill the bird, that we don’t even know the bird died – I still feel like crap.
Does not-feeling the feelings I should be feeling make me a crappy person? Am I heartless for sounding like I don’t care, when I really did care for my bird? And for my life? Or am I heartless because I just am?
I have a heart, one that beats and keeps me alive, but maybe that doesn’t guarantee I’ll have enough room for everything that should belong in it. So maybe instead of heartless, I’m too heartfull. Or halfheart. Or three-and-a-fourth-quarters heartless. Do I have too much heart or not enough of it?
My heart is still keeping me alive, or at least not killing me off yet. But maybe because it’s trying so hard to keep me alive that it can’t keep everything inside of it alive, too.
Every pet my family has owned never makes it pass the second year. We do the research, we take care of them, we love them and we check on them. But they never last. I think the 15 months we had my parakeet was our record.
Life is fleeting, but that doesn’t mean it has to be shorter than it already is. Honestly, looking back on all the pets I’ve owned and cared for, I feel awful. Not just because they died and it always seems like my fault, but because I took away their opportunity for a better life. If it hadn’t been my mom or dad who had seen them first, paid for them first, chosen them first, maybe someone else would’ve found them first and they would’ve made it to their second year. Or third year. Or fifth year. Or some year more than the ones we took away from them.
I don’t regret having a single one of the pets I had, but I do feel regret for them.
I think that no matter how hard you try to do something right, or how hard you try to keep something else alive, if you can barely keep alive yourself alive or barely keep other things in your heart alive, it’s kinda hard to keep another thing in your heart.
Or maybe I’m just heartless and doing it all wrong. Maybe keeping something else alive makes you more alive, and that my bird was as fleeting as life is in general.
We’ll never know how he died. I don’t know if I want to know. I don’t know if I want to know if I’m really heartless or heartfull. But either way, I hope my little guy is somewhere up flying in bird heaven, where there are fresh veggies and caretakers and carelovers who have all the room in the world for a little guy like him to stay in their hearts.
Bambi will always be in my heart, heartless or heartfull. We’ll miss you, little guy, and we’ll always love you, even if you don’t love us or you life with us back ❤❤
Also, sorry about not posting in 4 months. I promise there’s a story behind that too, one less depressing and less metaphor-question-filled, but that’s something for another day. I’ve missed you guys and I promise I’ll be blogging again.