This is a tough day for me. Six years ago today my apartment burned down, killing my former dog Dashiell, my kitty Asta and my big fat cat Crosby. LIterally everything I owned was gone, except for the clothes on my back and what I had in my purse. That was a hard pill to swallow.
Dashiell was the first dog I had ever raised from puppyhood, he was the sweetest creature I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Dumb as a stump, but loyal and goofy as hell.
Asta was a petite Siamese kitter that a friend of mine found at a Jack in the Box drive thru and promptly took to my apartment, knowing I would keep her. Little bitch was tough, she fucked up many a blue jay in her time.
Crosby was my 20 pound cat that was about 13 years old at the time of the fire. He had gotten out the day before, so I kept going back over there looking for him. I will never forget the smell of the burned building, it stays around for weeks. I never found him. I hope some nice person found him and loved him for me.
When something like this happens to a person, I believe the people around them really show their true colors. I had old friends pop up out of the woodwork to lend me a hand and do whatever they could to help me. My friend Chad found me the apartment I live in now, and being the queen he is, helped me decorate of course. The word got out at my work, and a ton of regular customers and most of my co-workers took up a collection for me, and many donated clothes, kitchen items, and lots of other stuff. The Red Cross hunted me down and gave me vouchers for furniture, a bed, and other household items. They were really great. It was overwhelming.
In my opinion, my mother handled things horribly. I was staying at my aunt's, and my mom had come down to "comfort" me. We were looking through a big pile of clothes people had given me, and my mom kept trying to take things for herself, saying "Oh Shan, you would never wear that"!
Well, at that point I was not too picky, since I had NOTHING AT ALL. I have never confronted her about this, and probably never will, but I thought it was extremely tacky and selfish.
I was pretty much in a fog for about a month, just getting shit done, rebuilding my little life and all. I had to sleep with the lights on for about a year for some reason. Slowly but surely I started feeling more at home in my new place, getting pictures on the walls, rugs, throw pillows, those kind of creature comforts. Then I went through a phase of looking for certain items for hours on end, and then realizing that they were lost in the fire. Drove me nuts.
I found myself missing things that seemed so trivial when I had them.
Notes from friends from elementary school.
Pictures.
Old textbooks.
The ugly ass afghan my grandma knitted me. I had never touched it but found myself longing for it.
Letters.
The ring my mom had made for me from old family stones.
My many notebooks filled with my shitty poetry.
The weird frog statue my friend Jenny gave me.
The little zen garden a friend made for me.
My dad's old sweaters.
My huge bougainvillea plant that snaked it's way around my patio railing.
The horrid burgundy carpet in my apartment that I grew to love somehow.
A few months later I decided I was going crazy and went to a therapist. I was terrified to leave my house. He immediately diagnosed me with post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and depressiion, and in the same breath told me he didn't understand me at all. Not even for $80 an hour. So much for that.
So I went back to work. Got my new dog, got my two new cats. Tried to make my new life as much like the old one as I could. Got tired of talking about it, got tired of the looks of pity from people. Spent nights looking up at the sky and talking to my animals that I lost, consumed with guilt because of how they suffered. Knowing full well none of this was my fault. Finally accepting this.
That time in my life was bad, real bad. But, I learned a lot about myself as well. I am strong, and can be stoic and practical in bad times and do what needs to be done. Not to say that I didn't fall apart and bawl like a baby in private, because I did. It was not pretty at times. I had horrible dreams and as a result never slept. I swear I saw a fire truck every day, and that would just send me into a major panic for sure.
I know, I know, it has been 6 years, I should just get over it, right? Well, I have for the most part. I feel safe in my home, and if I can take my dog wherever I go, it helps a lot. I still have many irrational fears about the oddest things, but that is just me I guess. I am not the same person I was at the time of the fire, I have changed in some good ways and some bad. But every year this day gets a little easier.
I just need to let it go
Dashiell was the first dog I had ever raised from puppyhood, he was the sweetest creature I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Dumb as a stump, but loyal and goofy as hell.
Asta was a petite Siamese kitter that a friend of mine found at a Jack in the Box drive thru and promptly took to my apartment, knowing I would keep her. Little bitch was tough, she fucked up many a blue jay in her time.
Crosby was my 20 pound cat that was about 13 years old at the time of the fire. He had gotten out the day before, so I kept going back over there looking for him. I will never forget the smell of the burned building, it stays around for weeks. I never found him. I hope some nice person found him and loved him for me.
When something like this happens to a person, I believe the people around them really show their true colors. I had old friends pop up out of the woodwork to lend me a hand and do whatever they could to help me. My friend Chad found me the apartment I live in now, and being the queen he is, helped me decorate of course. The word got out at my work, and a ton of regular customers and most of my co-workers took up a collection for me, and many donated clothes, kitchen items, and lots of other stuff. The Red Cross hunted me down and gave me vouchers for furniture, a bed, and other household items. They were really great. It was overwhelming.
In my opinion, my mother handled things horribly. I was staying at my aunt's, and my mom had come down to "comfort" me. We were looking through a big pile of clothes people had given me, and my mom kept trying to take things for herself, saying "Oh Shan, you would never wear that"!
Well, at that point I was not too picky, since I had NOTHING AT ALL. I have never confronted her about this, and probably never will, but I thought it was extremely tacky and selfish.
I was pretty much in a fog for about a month, just getting shit done, rebuilding my little life and all. I had to sleep with the lights on for about a year for some reason. Slowly but surely I started feeling more at home in my new place, getting pictures on the walls, rugs, throw pillows, those kind of creature comforts. Then I went through a phase of looking for certain items for hours on end, and then realizing that they were lost in the fire. Drove me nuts.
I found myself missing things that seemed so trivial when I had them.
Notes from friends from elementary school.
Pictures.
Old textbooks.
The ugly ass afghan my grandma knitted me. I had never touched it but found myself longing for it.
Letters.
The ring my mom had made for me from old family stones.
My many notebooks filled with my shitty poetry.
The weird frog statue my friend Jenny gave me.
The little zen garden a friend made for me.
My dad's old sweaters.
My huge bougainvillea plant that snaked it's way around my patio railing.
The horrid burgundy carpet in my apartment that I grew to love somehow.
A few months later I decided I was going crazy and went to a therapist. I was terrified to leave my house. He immediately diagnosed me with post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and depressiion, and in the same breath told me he didn't understand me at all. Not even for $80 an hour. So much for that.
So I went back to work. Got my new dog, got my two new cats. Tried to make my new life as much like the old one as I could. Got tired of talking about it, got tired of the looks of pity from people. Spent nights looking up at the sky and talking to my animals that I lost, consumed with guilt because of how they suffered. Knowing full well none of this was my fault. Finally accepting this.
That time in my life was bad, real bad. But, I learned a lot about myself as well. I am strong, and can be stoic and practical in bad times and do what needs to be done. Not to say that I didn't fall apart and bawl like a baby in private, because I did. It was not pretty at times. I had horrible dreams and as a result never slept. I swear I saw a fire truck every day, and that would just send me into a major panic for sure.
I know, I know, it has been 6 years, I should just get over it, right? Well, I have for the most part. I feel safe in my home, and if I can take my dog wherever I go, it helps a lot. I still have many irrational fears about the oddest things, but that is just me I guess. I am not the same person I was at the time of the fire, I have changed in some good ways and some bad. But every year this day gets a little easier.
I just need to let it go
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
tex13:
You are the kind of person who will never get over it completely, you have to much compassion to ever forget. You have done very well with rebuilding your life.
nikonphoto80:
i know it always helps when you know there is some one out there who can feel your pain.