Dear all,
I am writing mostly to get my emotions off of my chest.
A year and a half ago, I moved to the United States to pursue the dream I had since I was a little kid to explore my American identity (born in the States and moved to France when I was very young). The best way to finally do that was to do my graduate studies here. I moved, broken hearted because I left my mom in the other country and I love her oh so dearly. One of the things I did to get to know the city better, and to keep myself busy from being sad until school started, was to volunteer at an animal shelter. One day, a little litter of three kittens and an adoptive mom were ready to find a foster after spending a few days with a staff member, and I wanted to do it.
Obviously, at the time, I knew I'd end up wanting to keep at least one of the babes. I took care of the little family for a month, my roommates loved all of them, and I couldn't let them all go when it was time to spay, neuter, and put them up for adoption. I waited at the shelter while they were prepped after surgery to go home with me. And while I was sitting there, I had a cold chill run down my spine and suddenly felt clear-minded: "I should go. I should get up, tell them that I change my mind, that I don't really want this." I waited a bit, thinking that I couldn't back out now — but I could have, and went home with Salmon and Moon anyway.
When I moved to this country, high on my list was to get a cat again: I've always had them, and have always been a great pet owner. I still am, but I still screwed up. I said yes to my (super ex) bf to get a dog a few years ago, and that was the first time I screwed up with a pet. After a year, the dog was still very difficult, my ex lost interest in the dog a few weeks into having him, and I decided to move to Paris because I was sick of where I was at the time; I searched and searched for a new home for the dog, without the ex's help, and even though the dog is now doing extremely well with his (at the time) new owner, I cried and felt sick to my stomach for abandoning an animal.
But then, when I moved here and felt far from home, far from my mother, my best friends, I had been single for so long that I felt it would define me forever, I thought I wanted cats. It was great! I'd have them with me forever, if I moved back to France they'd come with me. I'd just have to pay for cat sitting when I leave. I was starting grad school (a masters at the time) and needed the cats to ground me. They helped with new anxiety issues, just by being there and needing to be fed because despite living with roommates I had terrible pangs of loneliness where the bed was spinning, my chest was sinking, and their tiny hungry "meows" took my mind off my crazy thoughts.
But last year, I was "recruited" by another school and moved to start a PhD program. I had a feeling I was in trouble: year 3 you can move to New York City... year 4 to Paris for a year... in the meantime there is this and that grant abroad you can easily do etc. I also started dating someone so I spend my weekends in another city, away from this town that I moved to that is suffocating me; I leave a few weekends per semester for horse shows; I usually leave at least an entire month in the summer to go back to my mom and friends there. I might be moving to NYC year 2 instead of year 3 (so this summer) because I am not happy in this town, and there is a chance I might spend weekends in another place a few hours away if I keep seeing this person who is moving there for a teaching position. And in a couple of weeks, I will spend a few days at my coach's barn to prep for a show and do some bartering.
I am piling up all of the lame excuses everybody uses: I'm moving where it's already expensive enough that I can't afford pet rent on top of my regular rent; I'm gone a lot and sometimes for long periods of time; I didn't understand what a PhD was before I made the commitment or how much traveling I'd be doing in a Literature program; I was lonely at the time and wouldn't hear my mom's arguments about being patient; I might be dating someone who is seriously allergic in spite of meds...I am out of the house all day even on weekdays because I can't focus when I work from home; I've also been doing a lot of extra work on top of courses and teaching, which will be replaced by being on the train next year when I will have moved to New York. The cats are okay and are slowly adjusting to me being gone a lot, but feeling "bad" is a light way to put how I feel about the situation.
I think right now I need complete freedom to live my graduate years and see where I end up and if I'll still be moving a lot, but I don't know how to go around fulfilling that need. The cats would be fine with finding a new, stable home — but what if that person rehomes them, too? What if I never forgive myself? I told myself after my ex neglected the dog and I had to rehome that little guy that I would never do that to another animal; but isn't it more about me and facing the failure? The dog quickly became a lot happier than when he was with us. My cats are sweet, a little bit exclusive, but I see them being completely comfortable and cuddly with my friends who look after them when I'm gone, so I know they will be fine. It just shatters my whole world and makes me thing of all the nasty things I've said about others who rehomed their animals. I got mad with a friend of mine who moved from Sweden to France three years ago, who left her cats there and now have already been rehomed twice since. But I'm the same person.
I don't have a good conclusion — but there are decisions to be made soon...
I am writing mostly to get my emotions off of my chest.
A year and a half ago, I moved to the United States to pursue the dream I had since I was a little kid to explore my American identity (born in the States and moved to France when I was very young). The best way to finally do that was to do my graduate studies here. I moved, broken hearted because I left my mom in the other country and I love her oh so dearly. One of the things I did to get to know the city better, and to keep myself busy from being sad until school started, was to volunteer at an animal shelter. One day, a little litter of three kittens and an adoptive mom were ready to find a foster after spending a few days with a staff member, and I wanted to do it.
Obviously, at the time, I knew I'd end up wanting to keep at least one of the babes. I took care of the little family for a month, my roommates loved all of them, and I couldn't let them all go when it was time to spay, neuter, and put them up for adoption. I waited at the shelter while they were prepped after surgery to go home with me. And while I was sitting there, I had a cold chill run down my spine and suddenly felt clear-minded: "I should go. I should get up, tell them that I change my mind, that I don't really want this." I waited a bit, thinking that I couldn't back out now — but I could have, and went home with Salmon and Moon anyway.
When I moved to this country, high on my list was to get a cat again: I've always had them, and have always been a great pet owner. I still am, but I still screwed up. I said yes to my (super ex) bf to get a dog a few years ago, and that was the first time I screwed up with a pet. After a year, the dog was still very difficult, my ex lost interest in the dog a few weeks into having him, and I decided to move to Paris because I was sick of where I was at the time; I searched and searched for a new home for the dog, without the ex's help, and even though the dog is now doing extremely well with his (at the time) new owner, I cried and felt sick to my stomach for abandoning an animal.
But then, when I moved here and felt far from home, far from my mother, my best friends, I had been single for so long that I felt it would define me forever, I thought I wanted cats. It was great! I'd have them with me forever, if I moved back to France they'd come with me. I'd just have to pay for cat sitting when I leave. I was starting grad school (a masters at the time) and needed the cats to ground me. They helped with new anxiety issues, just by being there and needing to be fed because despite living with roommates I had terrible pangs of loneliness where the bed was spinning, my chest was sinking, and their tiny hungry "meows" took my mind off my crazy thoughts.
But last year, I was "recruited" by another school and moved to start a PhD program. I had a feeling I was in trouble: year 3 you can move to New York City... year 4 to Paris for a year... in the meantime there is this and that grant abroad you can easily do etc. I also started dating someone so I spend my weekends in another city, away from this town that I moved to that is suffocating me; I leave a few weekends per semester for horse shows; I usually leave at least an entire month in the summer to go back to my mom and friends there. I might be moving to NYC year 2 instead of year 3 (so this summer) because I am not happy in this town, and there is a chance I might spend weekends in another place a few hours away if I keep seeing this person who is moving there for a teaching position. And in a couple of weeks, I will spend a few days at my coach's barn to prep for a show and do some bartering.
I am piling up all of the lame excuses everybody uses: I'm moving where it's already expensive enough that I can't afford pet rent on top of my regular rent; I'm gone a lot and sometimes for long periods of time; I didn't understand what a PhD was before I made the commitment or how much traveling I'd be doing in a Literature program; I was lonely at the time and wouldn't hear my mom's arguments about being patient; I might be dating someone who is seriously allergic in spite of meds...I am out of the house all day even on weekdays because I can't focus when I work from home; I've also been doing a lot of extra work on top of courses and teaching, which will be replaced by being on the train next year when I will have moved to New York. The cats are okay and are slowly adjusting to me being gone a lot, but feeling "bad" is a light way to put how I feel about the situation.
I think right now I need complete freedom to live my graduate years and see where I end up and if I'll still be moving a lot, but I don't know how to go around fulfilling that need. The cats would be fine with finding a new, stable home — but what if that person rehomes them, too? What if I never forgive myself? I told myself after my ex neglected the dog and I had to rehome that little guy that I would never do that to another animal; but isn't it more about me and facing the failure? The dog quickly became a lot happier than when he was with us. My cats are sweet, a little bit exclusive, but I see them being completely comfortable and cuddly with my friends who look after them when I'm gone, so I know they will be fine. It just shatters my whole world and makes me thing of all the nasty things I've said about others who rehomed their animals. I got mad with a friend of mine who moved from Sweden to France three years ago, who left her cats there and now have already been rehomed twice since. But I'm the same person.
I don't have a good conclusion — but there are decisions to be made soon...
