I guess I am, but he’s wrong about why.
Have you heard? The pope thinks people choosing pets over parenthood are selfish! Neat! While I generally do not concern myself with what any old man thinks of how I live my life, especially this old man, in particular, his words got me thinking… on reflection, this childless old hypocrite is actually right, at least about me.
At the end of 2019, I moved away from the city I called home for 13 years and bought a house in a city near my hometown. At the same time, I met the third love of my life, my dog, Josie. — but we’ll come back to my selfish pet love. First, a brief history of my selfishness.
Through my 20’s I was selfish, and I was a selfish teenager too. I am the oldest of three and very independent (selfish). When I turned 18 I selfishly left for college, an Art school I selfishly chose because I didn't have any clear plan for making money in the future and I liked hot art students and wanted to be one.
Through high school and college, all my paintings were self-portraits because I was obsessed with how fat and ugly I was and also how incredibly skinny and hot I was. I was certain at any given time that my beauty was unmatched, ethereal, and otherworldly or that my monstrousness was so apparent that anyone with eyes should recoil in disgust and any kindness I received was out of pity. Whichever side of the coin I landed on, one thing was for sure, I was thinking about me.
Me, the monster.
I wanted to be cool, to be hot, to be considered generous and exceptionally good, but also to be a bad girl, unafraid and tough, but moral, the most ethical, ready to face any fight for the right thing. I wanted to be everything.
I was an imposter. A monstrous imposter.
I selfishly dropped out of art school to do drugs in a loft in Brooklyn while I tried to get over my trauma after the man I thought I loved raped me in my dorm room. I selfishly starved myself and dropped acid and did shrooms and sold shrooms rather than working a real job. I snorted heroin with a stranger in a park at 3 am. I smoked ??? with ??? and stayed out all night. I crossed the subway tracks on a first date with a boy I met on myspace. I selfishly did not care if something I did killed me. I wasn’t trying to die exactly, but if I did, well, what would I care? I’d be dead anyway.
After about 9 months of selfish self-destruction, I got a real job in a bar and left the loft to live alone in a real apartment and go back to school like a selfish grown-up. I struggled to work so hard and be the BEST employee and the SMARTEST in class. I studied Philosophy so that I could spend all my time in my own head thinking about thinking. I thought I was done being self-destructive but I was wrong. I was still a phony trying so hard to be a cool girl that I didn’t even know who I was beyond who I was trying so hard to be. I threw myself into toxic relationships. I fell hard for a man over a decade older than me who didn’t care about me.
I did cocaine and learned to play poker and blackjack and bet on sports and horses. I took billiards lessons and stayed up all night waiting for his attention. I pretended not to care about things that hurt me. I pretended not to be interested in things that fascinated me if he thought they were lame or creepy or the worst thing of all… girly. I worked so hard to make him believe I was worthy. I wanted him to see how smart and funny and beautiful and wild and empty I could be. I made myself so empty.
I got cats.
I got cats and I loved them. Loving them helped me to care about myself. Luke and Annie helped me grow to be a person who valued myself.
I dumped the man, 14 years my senior, who was always borrowing money from me and telling me how unfunny and unsexy I was. It only took me four years.
I started running and developed a closer relationship with my sister and with other people who cared about me. I quit smoking cigarettes and I learned how to tell who my friends were.
I learned that I don’t like hard drugs or televised sports. I do like plants and animals. I still like weed and shrooms occasionally. I like science and mycology and true crime books, history and fashion. I love Asian cooking and cool knives. Horror films and epic dramas. Suspense. Horror comics and portraiture. I love pink and lace. I also love black and olive drab. I like short skirts and I like big baggy sweat pants. I love stickers. I still like blackjack but not poker or any other card games. I do not like pretending or guessing about people’s intentions. I ran six fucking half-marathons!
I got a job where I get to go to bed at a reasonable hour and don't have to stay up all night talking to drunk people. I learned that I am a natural morning person. I turned that job into a successful and flexible career that I actually enjoy (usually — it’s still work after all). I’ve made lasting friendships at work that have maintained their depth even after those people left the company. I bought a house!
I do not like people who act like I’m not funny as a power play. I do not like people who play non-consensual power games as part of their relationships. Power games belong in the bedroom and the negotiating table and nowhere else.
I’m fucking hilarious and I don’t have time for anyone who doesn’t think so.
I wasn't pretending to be generous or to care about people. I wasn't pretending to be smart. You can’t pretend to be beautiful. Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not but I learned that it literally does not matter. Being funny is much better than being beautiful. You also can’t pretend to be funny.
I ran a fucking marathon! I gained like 70 lbs and sometimes I’m fine with that. Not always. But it doesn't run my life.
What does run my life? My animals.
Luke, my black cat, passed away in 2020. It was devastating. I buried him under the lovely hydrangea at my sister’s house. I bought a banjo I never learned to play because of a scene in the movie Cool Hand Luke which he was named after. He loved Josie dog when she was a puppy. They would snuggle and play and I hoped he would be the bridge for Annie to accept her.
Annie, my little calico, is still with us. I work hard to make her feel safe and happy even though she still hasn’t forgiven me for getting a dog. She has her own room in my house with a tall cat tree and a cushion in front of the window so she can watch the birds.
Josie, my sweet puppy dog is 2 years old at the time of this writing. She drives me to leave the house every day when it would be easier to just stay in bed or on the couch. I struggle with severe depression and anxiety (are you surprised?) but she loves me and she is always there. She helps me to feel like I matter. She sleeps by my side every night and if I take a nap I wake up to find her toys all over me — gifted to me while I snoozed.
My love for my animals helped me to love myself. I went from being so lost and angry and desperate that I was passively suicidal to being solidly in tune with who I am and able to strive for a better simpler life. For them, for me, for us.
I love my nieces and nephews more than I can say and I am thrilled to have become a stable and successful authentic person who has survived so much. I’m a role model for overcoming. I also have financial resources that surpass what I need to create the life I want for me and my animals (no saving for college for these furballs!) that I can and do spread around the family and my community.
I don’t want kids. I love kids but after everything I’ve experienced, I can’t bear to create a new human life especially if it means being tethered to some man forever. I’m happier than I have ever been being single and queer and child-free. Just me and my Josie dog and my Annie cat.
I know, so fucking selfish, right?
