14,765 Days Alive
33 Years Since I Hugged Fievel Mouskewitz
10+ Inches of Snow Fell in the Past 24 Hours
3+ Happy Crying Jags Today
1/2 Serving of Baked Beef and Bean Nachos
Trigger warning past this initial paragraph: physical child abuse. This first part is happy, I swear.
Well. Today’s the day! He arrived! I am so freaking gleeful. Mr Fievel Mousekewitz is in my arms as I type this. As above, I have broken down crying, hugging said 39 year-old stuffed animal, at least three times so far today. A dear friend, named here as Lois, gifted him to me. He is 22 inches tall, still has his hat, shirt, trousers, and tail! He’s new to me, but used to belong to someone named Corey. Thank you so, so, so much for taking good care of Fievel for me to enjoy now.
Again, trigger warning. Beyond here there be dragons.
If you didn’t know, or if you’re new here, I grew up with unstable, abusive, mentally ill, and addiction-addled parental figures. Like, my home life after Easter Sunday, 1986 was massively troubled. We bounced between my mother’s boyfriend, homelessness, transient for a good bit, and a whole bunch of other crap.
An unfortunate and uncomfortable bit of truth follows: thirty-three years ago, my now late mother got mad at me. Furious. I don’t remember why or what it was about, honestly. It was probably something regarding my little brother, Mal. He was only like… maybe 8-10 months old? It was past Thanksgiving but before Christmas. I know it was 1992 because Mal was still a baby-baby.
And since it was winter, I would have been seven. But I would always get in trouble whenever I let him cry too long. And… Yes, I am aware how bad that sentence sounds; it’s something I’m working on when I have access to a therapist.
I don’t remember the “why” she was angry. I do remember is her snatching my Fievel from my arms and tossing him into the donation box we were getting ready to take to the thrift store. She said it was to ‘make room for other stuff and she shoved me away when I tried to take him back. There were… More physical consequences when I tried a second time. Not as bad as when she broke a hairbrush hitting me.
At the time, my mother said that Fievel deserved a good kid to love, a well-behaved one. Not me. It broke my fucking heart coz my Daddy’s mom, Grandma Gee, had gotten him for me when I was tiny. He had been the only constant other than my copy of Alice’s adventures, which would eventually been taken from me as well.
Again, mental illness and addiction issues on my mom’s part, all the close adults in my life, actually. Like attracts like, I suppose. Like, I know now it was her mental illnesses, her struggles, her demons.
But little Theo? Cried to sleep for two days straight. And then hid in the closet for another three days so as not to get into more trouble for being sad. I didn’t even look forward to Christmas that year, and I was already struggling with having a little brother and feeling lost and overlooked.
I now have Fievel again. I abso-fucking-loutely hate that I cried myself into an asthma attack earlier when I first pulled him out of the package. Crying again, just a little, as I type this.
He smells like dust right now, but I’m hoping that I can pick up a small vial of just straight up patchouli oil like my Grandma Gee used to wear. She’d dab some behind each of my ears and Feivel’s when we came to visit. It’s a very strong, positive scent-memory for me.
I am so glad to have him back.
I am gonna go fall asleep, cuddling my new old friend.
Take your meds, folks.
Postmark Wonderland 