My Life with Cats

There are two announcements at the bottom of the page. And apologies – the formatting is off because WordPress is being more difficult than usual today.

I‘m Taking a Break

Those of you who have been following me know that I have days when my blood pressure is so low that I can’t accomplish anything. Things pile up, and then I get totally overwhelmed. Self-care gets more and more time-consuming, and I feel stretched very, very thin.

I decided I needed to replenish my store of energy. So I arranged for friends to visit and cleared out my schedule except for medical appointments and really important online commitments.

From May 17 to May 25, I will be off playing, doing all the wonderful things I don’t normally have time for. Assuming, of course, that my blood pressure remains above 80/60.

There will be no blog post on May 20, and perhaps not even one on May 30. (Yes – I know this one is late – that’s a function of being overwhelmed, thanks to a run of low blood pressure days.)

Overwhelmed or not, I have been working behind the scenes on the new blog. If I steal some material from it, I won’t have to write a whole new post today. The new blog is about ritual abuse, of course, but there is also an entire page devoted to my cats. It’s called, of all things –

My Life with Cats

The year before my amnesia lifted and my memories came, I bought two Cornish Rex kittens from the same litter, a girl, Rosie, and a boy, Fargo. They were named after Rosebud, South Dakota and Fargo, North Dakota. That was because their father’s name was Demon Dakota. (Oops, I promised I would say nothing about RA/MC. I just can’t help myself. It’s such an integral part of my life.) Their mother’s name was Sweet Purrfection, yuck. They were orange cats with white markings.

 They lived a long time. Rosie was sixteen when she died, and Fargo lived another year and a half. I thought I would never get another cat because no cat would be as great as they were. Surely a kitten would outlive me, and it wasn’t fair to go and abandon him like that. So there was lots of crying – “I’ll never sleep with a cat again!”

 After a couple of years, I changed my mind, got another orange and white Cornish Rex kitten, and named him Dakota. He lived to be eighteen and a half. Obviously, I was wrong about dying before him and leaving him all alone in a cold world.

A black Cornish Rex kitten named Bobcat joined us when Dakota was six or seven and stayed a few years. I had to separate the two because Bobcat was bullying Dakota and made his life miserable. I found him an ideal home with two adoring people and an adoring one-eyed, toothless Italian greyhound, and he has been very happy there. It was best for all involved, but still heartbreaking.

 I lost Dakota last September, and, to my surprise, I was not nearly as hesitant about getting another cat. I have no idea why. Am I braver? More impetuous? More selfish? Am I betting on being immortal? Who cares? This is the way it is – I want a cat.

 I realize I no longer have the energy to chase after a kitten. Fostering was a possibility, but I wouldn’t be good with a cat with behavior problems, and I would be heartbroken about having to give up an animal I had grown attached to. The other option was adopting a grown cat, perhaps an elderly one. The two of us could keep each other company as we limped through our golden years.

 For months, I knew I wasn’t ready because I kept expecting Dakota to be in the next room. (That’s called seeing a ghost cat.) As Dakota gradually stopped visiting me in his new form, I began checking out and local animal rescue organizations. My friends started asking me if I had found a cat I liked. I liked some well enough, but the chemistry wasn’t there.

 I had a few non-negotiable demands. It must be older, short-haired, and affectionate, and it can’t be orange. I don’t need an echo of Rosie, Fargo, and Dakota. I prefer an open adoption so that the previous owner can check that their cat is okay in my home and can even visit him if they want. I can ask a million questions and send cute pictures.

 The SPCA website beckoned. I hadn’t intended to go there because their process of giving up a cat and adopting one is detailed to the max, and, frankly, I found some of their questions intrusive, even insulting. 

One night I was in the mood to window-shop and went to their site to look at the photos of available cats. Lo and behold, the SPCA has gotten far more reasonable! They now have a section called “Animals in the Community,” which lists cats available for private “rehoming.”

 It turns out that some non-negotiable things are negotiable after all.

That’s all for now, folks. There are two more cats to come, Baker and Spencer.

Reminder: Survivorship’s 2023 Online Conferences Are Almost Here

Clinician’s Conference – Friday, May 19

Survivor Conference – Saturday and Sunday, May 20 – 21 

“Sound of Freedom” Trailer

A survivor wrote me, 

“This is a movie about child sex trafficking that will be in the theaters July 4. 

“This is the trailer. At the end of it the link is given where you can buy tickets…for yourself and for someone else who might not otherwise go, see, or learn about this horror. 

They also give free tickets to those who can’t afford it.

Let’s try and fill the theaters with people who need to hear/know about this. Pass this on!

Beltane 2023

Beltane is the worst day of the year for me. It’s more than just an excuse for an orgy; it is a cruel parody of the beauty of spring, a negation of abundant life force. Old guys raped little kids as well as any women that caught their eye. And the young guys followed suit. There were always a couple who looked miserable, and I hope they got out, remembered, and started their healing journey.

Actually, I wish they all could have remembered and come to their senses. It would have meant the end of this insanity.

I always wonder what happens to babies born on May Eve or Beltane. I have known one survivor born on Beltane, so they didn’t all get killed, as I fear. 

I don’t remember any babies at the ritual. That is because, in our cult, children were not allowed at rituals until they could “behave.” Instead, they were trained to be obedient, to be amnesic, to be sexual, and to kill. Those who trained the children – both men and women – did not have high status, but they were good at what they did and seemed to enjoy the work.

Some cults call children conceived on Beltane “spawn of Satan.” In our cult, they were considered special – it would make sense that any child of Satan would be pretty special. Just a few days ago, I put two and two together and realized my father could well have been conceived on Beltane. He was born a bit less than nine months later, a couple of days before Candlemas. He didn’t look at all like my grandfather, although his brother did. Well, I shall never know, for there is no way I can ask my grandmother, is there?

So here I am, feeling sad, angry, and afraid. Those feelings are absolutely appropriate for a Satanic cult survivor on May Eve but at odds with a sunny spring day. Flowers are blooming all over, and the wind is rustling through trees that are starting to leaf out. I look out the window at the gorgeous big street trees, wishing I had taken a picture of them every spring to track their growth. There is still so much beauty in the world, despite a surplus of ugliness.

I hope all of you are safe today and will stay safe through Beltane, through the rest of summer, and through the rest of your lives. I wish for your pain to ease and for you to find your place in your own post-cult world. 

Life may still be hard and painful, but it will never be as bad as when you were a powerless little kid surrounded by huge violent grown-ups constantly lying to you, tricking you, deceiving you, and hurting your body, mind, heart, and soul in every conceivable way. You have survived your childhood. You are resilient, strong, and creative. 

May you come through this Beltane with renewed hope and strength.


Did I tell you he has thrown away his winter coat and is wearing his beautiful soft new summer coat? So pretty!

He has also learned how to drink from a water faucet. I let the faucet in the bathroom sink drip slowly, and he contorts himself to get every last drop. When he straightens out for a moment, the water falls on the top of his head and surprises him. He shakes himself and goes back for seconds.

I’m tempted to get him a drinking fountain of his own, but all the ones I have found are ugly plastic things that you have to clean all the time and keep supplied with filters to keep mold from growing. Why bother? He seems pleased enough with this free, low-tech set-up.


Sunlight Lives. I love this blog, especially the gentle healing story. 

The videos of the RA/MC panel presented at last year’s Social Justice and Human Trafficking Conference are at: Part 1 – and Part 2 –

The GrassRoots’ April Newsletter is ready. To be added to the mailing list, send your request to: 

Survivorship 2023 Online Conference

Clinician’s Conference – Friday, May 19 – Survivors’ Conference – Saturday and Sunday, May 20 – 21    

Researching Ritual Abuse and Mind Control in Art and Literature: One Art Historian’s Journey – Lynn Brunet PhD

The Effects of Social Movements on Survivor Support Systems and Survivor Recover– Neil Brick

The History of Ritual Abuse and the Effects of Social Trends on the Therapeutic Profession – Neil Brick

How to Create a Successful Recovery Path for Disassociated Survival Skills and DID – Shelby Rising Eagle

The Enmeshment of the British False Memory Society and the British Psychological Society. – Dr. Rainer Hermann Kurz 

Child Trafficking through Family Court Proceedings: A UK Case Study – Dr. Rainer Hermann Kurz

Some Evidence-Based Practice Guidelines and Standards Relevant to the Psychological Care of Extreme Abuse Survivors– Dr. Randall Noblitt 

Creating Calm – Patricia Quinn

Programmed and Internal Psychological Mechanisms that Perpetuate the Cycle of Extreme Abuse – Ellen P. Lacter, Ph.D.

Blurring the Past and the Present

Beltaine is Coming Up

April 30 is May Eve (also called Walpurgisnacht), and May 1 is Beltane. Since the pagan holidays appropriated by Satanic cults start at midnight, May Eve is basically part of Beltane. 

This year, May Eve is on a Sunday. It wouldn’t surprise me if the preceding Saturday, and perhaps Friday the 29th, will be treated as part of Beltane.

Here are some previous posts on Beltane and May Eve.

Beltane: A short article on Beltane traditions.

Walpurgisnacht: This background article has information about Saint Walpurga, plus additional information about Beltane.

Rereading it, I had an “aha” moment. My father’s birthday was just before Candlemas, which means he could have been conceived on Beltane. I didn’t catch that when I wrote the article. I feel sick to my stomach.

Beltane Blues (personal) Read it to the end – there is a beautiful letter from my friend GhostWolf. 

A Beltane Re-Birth Memory (personal)

My New Blog Is Still Scheduled for April

Although I’m still hoping to get it going in April, I’m beginning to have a few doubts. April is more than half over, and there’s still a lot to be done.

At least I am not working at some high-pressure company. I have no boss but myself. My deadline is not firm. The world will not end if I take as long as I want. Besides, SquareSpace keeps coming up with exciting new features!  

No matter when the change occurs, this blog will stay up for reference for a long, long time. It may live forever through the WayBack Machine at


I took him to the vet the other day. His litter box behavior is not due to a UTI, but to anxiety from changes in his environment. The biggest change was in me – I got pretty stressed out around the time he started having litter box problems. Anxiety is contagious, even between species! At least I have something to work with.

The vet found a heart murmur. She said it could be something serious, or it could be a big nothing. We did a blood test for some marker, and the results showed that it might, indeed, be serious. So there will be more tests to find what we are dealing with.

Happier news: Shedding is slowing down. He has lost almost all of his winter coat, even though it’s still only in the 40-50 degree range here. Less fur all over is happier news for me – he doesn’t care one little bit. 

Blurring the Past and the Present

I think it’s very easy to get past and present mixed up. I also think it would be much easier to learn to be present all the time and not have to think about the past or future. Not sure how that would work, but I am certain it is something I am not going to achieve any time soon.

Before my amnesia dissolved, I projected the present back into the past, covering most of the events in my life in a sanitized version of my childhood. I did remember some major changes, like getting older, taller, and more educated, and I saw how they shaped my present. I, therefore, thought my past was pretty much like the present. I was safe, taken care of, and had the best clothes, food, toys, and education possible. All was good. There were photos to prove it.

When I finally remembered what the past had really been like, I no longer believed for one second it had been as safe as I had thought. On the contrary, it had been dangerous and abusive and had damaged me deeply. 

Remembering reversed the flow of time; the past became projected onto the present. Although the abuse had, in fact, stopped many years before, it felt like it was still going on. That’s because the past feelings came swooping back in flashback form. I felt all the terror I had experienced as a little child. I thought I would die from the pain and the fear. 

I also worried that the past had continued unbroken into the present. Could I still be going to cult rituals? If I had once not known I was going, thanks to amnesiac barriers, what was to say I wasn’t doing things I was unaware of now? Was I missing time and not knowing it? The thought was terrifying. Over and over, I checked to see whether I might still be involved and slowly decided I wasn’t. I had no way of figuring out whether I had “sleeper” alters – parts that had been deactivated but could be brought back to return and participate in activities they had been trained for.

In the first case, when I was still amnesiac, the present flowed back into the past, covering up everything that did not fit with the official version of how my life was unfolding. Nothing was confusing, and nothing felt wrong or out of place.

Except I knew there was something very wrong with me. I knew it as early as first grade. I ks? Fear of men? Anxiety? Depression? Hatred of my body? No matter what I tried to do to fix myself, nothing made any difference.

 When I realized that I had been ritually abused, the first words out of my mouth were, “I always knew I was damaged goods.” The past had been flowing into the present, sending out hints and coded messages, at the same time that the present was flowing into the past, covering up the ugly parts. 

Think of it as tides in an estuary. The salt seawater flows in and covers the fresh river water. It retreats, and the freshwater takes its place. High tide, low tide, over and over. A natural process. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing to fix. It’s just the way things are.

There has never been anything wrong with me. My reactions to extreme danger, fear, and pain have always been natural and healthy. It’s normal for a child to believe what the adults say. It’s normal not to challenge your childhood beliefs until later in life – and only then if there is a compelling reason to.

The main things that are wrong with my body can’t be fixed, but I can adapt to them and find ways to compensate for the deficits they cause. The same for my mind, my emotions, and my behavior. Why try to fix them? Why not accept them as they are? It’s more realistic, after all. And more pleasant. Also easier. I can’t think of a single downside to accepting them enthusiastically and then learning how to adapt and compensate.