Nathan and the Amazing Russian Blue

There was a time when I was skeptical, if not cynical, over the idea of emotional support animals.

I like pets. As long as I have been alive, I have always had a cat or a dog in the house. I enjoy them for the same reasons that many people do: the cuteness and companionship and more.

Note to self: it’s always easier to make fun of things that you do not understand. And I most certainly did not understand the idea of an emotional support animal. I figured the idea to be flimsy at best, and distracting at worst.

As my mental health took a steep and lightning fast decline in the summer of 2022, I found myself seeking out therapy, and at the time, any treatment that worked was fine with me. Dialectal Behavioral Therapy, which is the program that I am in most suited for, proved to be a new way of exercising mindful activities.

What does it mean to be mindful of a current activity? For starters, a mindful activity exists in the present; not the past or the future. For the borderline especially, looking into the past is a straight ticket to periods of shame and rumination. Looking in the future is a guaranteed serving of worry and crippling anxiety.

The borderline runs from the present with the urgency of a fugitive. Why does the borderline do this? My best guess is that I run because my brain keeps a long record of “present moments” that did not serve me very well. To avoid the novel and possibly unforeseen dangers of the present, all one needs to do is occupy themselves with regret or worry. The present quickly fades away, along with its necessary tasks and the goals attached to it.

Mindfulness is the appropriate response to rumination or worry. Being mindful simply means to be dialed into the present moment in all of its stimuli. Someone who is mindful is locked into the current moment, and is not bothered with regrets from the past or apprehensions about events yet to come. To be mindful is to commit your thoughts and sensory perception to the here and now, without looking forward or backward in time. The mindful brain accepts the present reality for what it is, without immediate evaluation or judgment.

When I am mindful of the present, I don’t just take a drink of water. I pick up my container (sorry, it’s not a Stanley). I think about how the texture of the ceramic coating feels underneath my fingers. I think about each curvature in my fingerprints, lightly pressed against the cup. Suddenly I am concerned with the weight of it all; the metal, the plastic topper, the water and ice swishing around. I think about each ice cube, floating through the water, melting slowly as the hours pass by. When I lift the drink to my face, I make sure that the cap has a wide opening; this allows the water to hit my lips and mouth in a way that a drinking straw wouldn’t. I relish in the cold, splashing sensation. I am reminded that cold drinking water is really a perfect thing, and I can’t imagine why anyone would want water that isn’t cold.

I mostly drink the water to hydrate, but I also drink it to come back to reality. Mindfulness keeps me in the moment, and therefore grounds me. I try to practice this outlook whenever I can, which is usually when my brain can tell itself to shut up already. The principle setting I use to practice mindful thinking is my relationship with my Russian Blue cat, Mickey.

Mickey has good reason to be distrustful of me; while I have never been abusive to him, he has certainly been cowering, under the bed, waiting for the borderline rage to calm down. Several years ago, one my outbursts frightened the poor cat so much that he seemed to avoid me at all costs. I will never forget the moment when I was flat out told, “Nathan. Mickey is afraid of you. He used to be your favorite.”

Ouch.

This brought me more than enough distress, but the accusation was true. I had become unmanageable, and so much so that my sweet cat, up there in years yet still full of life and anticipation, would slink out of the room if he saw me. It also didn’t help that, when my Persian cat (Penelope) was still alive, I shamefully gave her most of my attention. Mickey had done nothing to earn my inattention. I simply had my favorite pet and that was that.

For years, if I am honest with myself, I largely forgot about Mickey. I hardly thought of a cat who always chirped in anticipation of seeing me and my family. I neglected to give attention to an animal that has never been mean and never hurt a single thing. I had neglected attention to a very good kitty indeed.

And of course, as you might suspect the arc of this story to look, Mickey certainly didn’t forget about me. During my outpatient therapy program this summer, which lasted about 10 weeks, I learned the concept of self-soothing for a crisis; think of self-soothing as a safe and effective way to deal with stress; the DBT handbook references quite a few acts of self-soothing, and one of them instructs patients to pet an animal, such as a dog or a cat.

I started petting Mickey more frequently. I would wake up in the morning and find him, setting on the foot of the bed, waiting for me to come by. I quickly learned that taking several 10-15 minute breaks to pet the cat was good for me. I also learned that talking to my cat was also good for me; the conversations are trivial and always the same, but they are sustaining. I talk, and he chirps, and I talk, and he chirps. No real information is exchanged, and yet the encounter is awesome.

I am rarely more plugged into a moment than when I pet him. I target my mind on the softness of his fur. I marvel at his green eyes and the innocent and trusting look behind them. When he takes his cheek and glides it over my fingertips, my heart is warmed. In these moments he is marking me with his scent, signaling to everyone else that I am part of his territory. When he sits still enough, I count his whiskers. If I lower my head to the bed, cocked to the side and one ear resting against the comforter, he will mirror me and lay out, demonstrating his trust by exposing his tummy. The more I pet him, the more he purrs. If I enter a room, he stops what he is doing and comes right away to see me, his posture showing signs of excitement.

It wasn’t too long ago that Mickey was scared of me; now he is a primary means of self-soothing and healing. My neglect, after all these years, was rewarded with the loyalty of the sweetest of all cats.

Furthermore, Mickey helps me stay in the moment because this is precisely how he lives: in the very present itself. Without the capacity to ruminate on the past and worry about the future, he exists squarely in the RIGHT NOW, with present wants and needs before him.

It’s thus settled: My New Year’s Resolution, for 2024, is to be more like my cat and less like myself. I’ll report back with progress when I put this year to bed.

Yours Mentally,

Nathan