Frickin' Full Moon

And other bits and bobs from the past week

I swear the full moon last Friday threw off my entire life.

The full moon and also the fact that a weird smell woke me up at 3am. A very suspiciously weird smell.

Sometimes, my beautiful cat Mister will make a statement by taking a big poo in his litter box (which is in my closet, not far from my bed) and purposefully leaving it uncovered. But not this night, the night of the Friday full moon.

I check. There’s only one poop in the litter box and it’s buried.

One of my grandmas had schizophrenia, and anytime I think I might be imagining a detail — music or voices that feel like they’re coming out of nowhere, maybe a middle of the night poop smell — I worry it’s finally come for me.

Even though I know it’s going to mess with my sleep, I turn on the light. There’s some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I didn’t imagine the smell and I guess I have once again given schizophrenia a run for her money. The bad news is that the smell is coming from a smeary trail on my floor. Then my carpet. Then the floor again.

Mister (he’s beautiful; it bears repeating) is curled up asleep on the little cardboard scratching post house I bought him for his birthday. The idea of him being a homeowner delights me, even in this moment, as I’m standing in my underwear at 3am under the full moon that is ruining my life.

I sniff like I’m checking a baby’s diaper. Here’s a dramatic reenactment:

It’s bad.

Like, entire turd smooshed into soft butt fur bad.

Even though I suddenly have to pee more than I’ve ever had to pee ever in my life, a calm wooshes over me. There is only me and the pair of craft scissors. And the blanket I trap Mister in. And I guess also Mister, who is leaving deep scratches down my tummy and chest.

Amidst the struggle, I only get one shot. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the wad of fur and poop is in my hand, and Mister is taking one last swipe at my jugular.

I sleep in the next day, I can’t help it.

It’s Saturday, it’s fine. I forgive you, self.

But then darkness falls. My brain won’t turn off. I watch Tik Toks of witches explaining the eclipse and where Scorpio falls in our charts and how this full moon signifies the end of a six month cycle.

I turn on the light even though I know it will mess with my sleep.

I check my notebook from November.

I was in the middle of my therapist’s self compassion group workshop. I was at a baby shower. I was at the beach one day, back in rainy PNW darkness the next. I was cancelling Thanksgiving. I was sleeping a lot.

Maybe that’s the cycle ending. Because even when I do get sleep, it’s pockmarked by scary dreams, running away from something awful. And running into kids I sat next to in middle school, grown up but also the same but definitely just dream same. “Run,” I tell them. “Take my hand. We have to go.”

I light palo santo and walk around my apartment. I listen to a British woman whisper positive affirmations. I shake my fist at the moon and take my magnesium supplement.

Tuesday night is the worst of it. I’m so tired and so awake I cry like a little baby. I rub my face on Mister’s beautiful fur.

When he’s not caked in feces, he smells amazing.