This post is available as a podcast here: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/s-p01/episodes/Yodel–Yodel–Dance-e27c7eu

This post’s title is thanks to a Gümmibar song (I americanized it), but it’s really about my need for attention.

I’m a cat.

There are many cat personalities, but I’m a lot like my cat was. He was like an animal companion in Dungeons and Dragons, 4th edition. We could talk to each other, he followed me around, he even asked before jumping on my lap. He was very cuddly, purred loudly, and was generally affectionate. He was my best cat. He curled up in my lap while grading from his tiny kittendom to his old age. I’m affectionate like him. When I want to be affectionate or close to someone, I will find a way to keep touching them. I do the same cat head-butts into people’s shoulders or laps. I’ve even caught myself purring and meowing when I felt loved. I’m a human cat in my affections. At least I don’t drool, hahaha.

Why do I do this? The question I’m always asking myself, about everything I do. There’s a meme that says something to the effect of “your love language is what you lacked as a child.” I wonder if the love language you speak most is the way you received love as a child because touch was absolutely the love language of my father. I show love most through touch. I feel love most through words of affirmation and acts of service. I love touch, but it honestly makes me feel appreciated or craved, but not loved. Love is deeper, for me. Love comes from the heart, not the body.

The need for attention is very visible through the words of affirmation. It’s what drew me to the theatre, to performance. When we place ourselves on a stage it’s vulnerable, but it’s also a rush. The adrenaline, the attention, and the praise. From an early age, I wanted to be the center of attention. I think the underlying feelings that caused me to crave that attention were from a sense of isolation. When I feel alone, I put on a show. A show entertains people, it draws them close. When people are drawn closer to me, I feel more deserving of love. Thus, it’s natural for me to put on a show – because at my core I want that love. It’s certainly not for everyone, but that’s why so many do not understand. It’s why people like me get labeled as “attention seeking” like we’re shallow, conceited, and/or narcissistic assholes.

I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve asked myself if I’m a narcissist for my attention seeking. How deeply entrenched the guilt from those words has bound itself in my heart. How, as an adult, I learned that I couldn’t seek attention anymore. How lonely and depressed I became as I hermited myself to avoid the names and blames of my past. When I went to the stage, I was never “good enough,” but I couldn’t give up. I was never the best dancer, actor, or singer on stage. I don’t think I ever became the “best” at anything. I tried my best, but that’s as far as I got. It wasn’t about being the best, it was about the experience, the attention, and the love. I think the emptiness within me seeking that love is part of the reason I was never “good enough.”

I, like all artists, could never count the number of “no”s I received. The number of times I wasn’t the right fit, or the one cast for the part. It’s part of the art: rejection. We get rejected until we do fit. Our hope, our love for the art, is what keeps us going. It’s the reason we persist. In teaching, there’s a known psychological construct where the bad evaluations always stand out – we can have 50 good reviews, but the bad ones (even just one) mark us and affect what we do the next time around. In art, we hold onto the praise. We cling to the good reviews to keep us going. We’ve heard so much rejection, so many bad reviews, but we find a way to push through for our love of the art. Every compliment keeps us moving forward to create more. Why?

I feel like these two scenarios should not be so different, but I’m going to make a guess as to why they are. When teaching, there is a sense of service to the students. We’re there to teach them, serve them with knowledge. Their reviews matter because they tell us if we’re reaching our goal as instructors. However, in art – the art is about the heart of us. Art is a sharing of our souls; when it’s rejected we know that the art didn’t reach them, but that maybe it wasn’t supposed to. We know we aren’t for everyone, nor will we fit in every role we try. The people who love our art are connecting with our humanity, our soul. It enriches our connection to others in a way that fulfills who we are. The teachers who connect with their students the way art does are rare. I strive to be one of them.

My story this week is about my first cat, Goldy.

I got my first cat when I was 6. She was a red point siamese, we got her from the pound? Maybe a shelter. It was a long time ago, and 6-year-old me didn’t know the difference. I wanted a cat for so long, Goldy was a very appropriate first cat for me. She was terrified of her new home. I think she hid under my parent’s bed for the first few weeks. I was the only human she really liked. When she got used to me, she slept with me every night. I still hear her purring in my mind, feel her vibrations against my body while I lay in bed. She also had a funny thing she did: she would chew on my hair while I was in bed, along my scalp. It was so weird, but the memory is oddly comforting. She gave me my first scalp massages. I loved her.

Goldy was a high strung cat; people stressed her out. I have a few memories, though. I tried cutting her fur one day – I immediately regretted it. I just took a small chunk off her back (of fur!), and there was an unevenness to her fur for a while. One of my babysitters had friends over while I was in bed one night. They put scotch tape on her paws. I heard them laughing, and got out of bed to find out what was happening. I was so horrified at her distress with them all laughing around her that I rushed to her rescue and cried over them tormenting her. I was a sensitive kid.

Goldy was my comfort in some of my worst years. Unfortunately, my stepfather took a rather awful approach with her; he started throwing her out the front door by the scruff of her neck. She responded by peeing on any and all clothing in the house. I don’t really blame her. He was an asshole to her and she should never have had to tolerate it. I do have one funny story about Goldy, though. So, let’s end with that. My neighbors rarely visited us, but I distinctly remember (what I think was) their first visit to our house. The mom didn’t shave her underarms, and she was wearing a tank dress while juggling their youngest child who was toddler-age. Goldy, the cat afraid of everyone, was not afraid of her. No, Goldy couldn’t leave her alone. Why? Goldy was so drawn to this poor woman’s armpits that she would not stop sticking her nose into them. It was absurd. Goldy was often absurd. I love absurdity, and I loved Goldy with my whole heart.

May you find love and attention that speaks your language, otherwise it’s the pits.

I still love you, -S.