Letters to Cleo

Part 4: Breath by breath

Angel on my shoulder - 2022

Hi, my name is Cleo. I’m a petite Manx cat with no tail. I love my mom Kezia, my dad James, my sister Harper, and my brother Tristan. Until recently I lived in Hanover, Pennsylvania, USA but this isn’t where my story began. I was born in August, 2010, in Kelowna, BC, Canada. My mom adopted me when I was eight weeks old and I moved across the country, and eventually to the States with her and my sister. A few years ago I got a new Dad, and last summer I got a new brother. I miss my family loads, but now I get to watch over them as they start a new chapter, in a new home. Don’t be sad for me for mine was a beautiful life.

Here’s my story 🐾

**This is part four of a new weekly series called ‘Letters to Cleo’ where I will chronicle Cleo’s life through stories about my mental health struggles, ADHD, alcoholism, trauma, sobriety, and motherhood.

“Grief is a slippery thing, it’s constantly morphing and shapeshifting. Sometimes the changes are imperceptible, and other times I am knocked out and left for dead.” *excerpt from a recent journal entry*

June 7th, 2024

My darling girl,

Earlier this week you came to me in the wee hours as I slept on the couch after my nightly pumping session. Your presence wrapped around my back, and hugged my shoulders in a warm, familiar embrace. I felt the tickle of your breath crawling up my neck towards my ears. We rested in this space, you and I, for what seemed like an eternity before my body’s rising heat startled me awake with a jolt. I shot up in a clammy sweat, the room spinning in the aftermath of your visit. It’s the first time I’ve sensed your spirit in such vivid detail. So close. So alive. But, by the time I’d brewed my coffee you’d retreated behind the veil.

Oh precious one, the power of your presence is magnified in the afterlife. I have no doubt that I’m witnessing the energy of a young Cleo. You feel resilient, steady, playful, and curious. My heart swells when I think of you in your element. I imagine you spend your days lounging in piles of warm laundry, while consuming scraps of food from the table. I can hear you chattering gleefully as you chase your beloved barnyard animal toys through the clouds. If I go deeper into my reverie I meet a younger you who adores cuddling with other kitties. It’s a shame that none of your companions ever lived longer than a few years. I hope you know that I tried Kiki, I really wanted you to have a furry friend. I feel at peace knowing that you’re reunited with Turbo, Pandora, Timbit, and Fat Cat on the Other Side.

At the start of this week I pulled Cheryl Strayed’s ‘Brave Enough’ off the shelf. The fluorescent green cover caught my eye, so I decided to do what I often do with books on my shelf, I closed my eyes and let the pages fall open to a random spot. Here is a snippet from the quote:

“Allow your acceptance of the universality of suffering to be a transformative experience. You do that by simply looking at what pains you squarely in the face and then moving on. You don’t have to move fast or far. You can go just an inch. You can mark your progress breath by breath.”

These last few weeks I’ve done my best to stay face-to-face with my grief. I’m choosing not to shy away from my pain. The desire to bury my head in the sand, or pretend this isn’t my reality is strong some days. But so too is the pull to notice signs of you in my everyday life. I look for the continuance of our love, the invisible thread connecting my heart to yours. I know I don’t have to sugarcoat things for you Cleo, I’ve been really fucking sad this week. I’m angry that I don’t get one more day with you. I long to stroke your tiny, soft body. I want to scoop you up and nuzzle my face into your side. So great is my love for you that my sadness can feel suffocating if I allow it to. Not wanting to live in this space of concentrated grief doesn’t make me a bad human. Desiring some distance from the pain that sears me is okay, in fact it’s more than okay. I don’t have to prove my grief to anyone. I honor you every single day just by being present in my life.

My existence in this beautiful sober life has everything to do with your gentle, but firm guidance over the years. At the lowest point of my addiction you were by my side, nestled in a cloud of blankets at the foot of my bed, or sunning yourself in the upstairs windows of 619 Maple Avenue. I wouldn’t be here without you, Kiki. You must feel my sadness this week because the signs felt extra. A couple of days ago when Harper and I were waiting in the Aldi pick up spot I noticed a brown and white bunny on the edge of the wooded area behind the store. “It’s that bunny again!” I exclaimed gleefully to Harper. I reached one hand into the backseat to squeeze hers, and used the other to wipe a stray tear off my cheek. We’ve seen at least three more bunnies since then, and each sighting lifts my spirits just a little bit higher.

This experience has shown me that everyone who crosses our path is carrying the burden of grief. Even if their grief is insignificant by someone else’s standards. Even if they’ve never admitted it to another soul. Grief is undeniable… it lives in our bones. It becomes a part of our DNA. In all the years that I chose to drink at my feelings rather than allow them I was sending my body a message that my feelings didn’t matter. Every loss, every trauma, every opportunity to grow was simply buried beneath the false security blanket of drinking. But not this time Cleo, this time I am choosing to share my emptiness openly. I’m exposing my grief and sadness for the world to see. I’m not ashamed. I’m proud of our love. I’m proud of the woman I became in the last few years of your life. When I remember our story through this lens the vice grip on my chest loosens ever so slightly, and I’m able to breathe easier. These slow, steady breaths punctuate the progression of my acceptance. I accept that this is our story now. You’re the ray of light surrounding our little family ✨

Be well my love, Mama loves you forever ♡

xo Mama 💗

Also, I’m participating in this fun challenge from one of my fave creators

Claire Venus

. If you’re looking for accountability in a supportive, welcoming community all you have to do is commit to yourself to write around 24 essays by January 31st, 2025. In true ADHD form I’ve forgotten to count a couple essays so far. But that’s okay, let’s call this #1 🙌🏻