Looking at this recent photo of Hannah with her little brother Sam, one might not realize that Hannah came to me traumatized, at the age of three, after living in an abusive home. When we first met, just a couple of years after I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), she was, like me, very fearful of closeness: she’d let me pet her but only in her kitty bed in the far corner of my apartment. She hid from visitors. Eating with her back turned was dangerous. I’d never allow her on my bed. Safety, in both our eyes, was never a given.
When I adopted Sam, he taught Hannah about companionship. Hannah wasn’t all for it at the time. She expressed such hateful guttural sounds, noises I’d never before heard from her; her reaction caused adrenaline to rush through me, triggered my PTSD. This was the difficult path to recovering from traumatic experiences of the past.
It’s been nine years since I was first diagnosed with PTSD. In that time, I’ve gone through a great deal of therapy and recovery. Hannah has, in many ways, reflected the changes I’ve undergone in healing.
A couple of months ago, I caught Hannah and Sam sleeping on my bed, their bodies comfortably touching. Hannah had never allowed Sam to be that close. I convinced myself she was doing it not for love but for warmth, survival: the weather had turned cold and the garret heat was not on.
When I showed a friend a photograph I’d taken of Hannah and Sam together on my bed, he pointed to the cat who was opening herself up with her extended paw: he thought that cat was Sam. I had to remind him that the calico was Hannah.
One night, after I’d come home from a long day of teaching, Hannah climbed up beside me on the garret chaise. She sat up tall for several minutes, 
gazing at me until I began to feel self-conscious. When I looked back at her, she stretched her front paws onto the rim of the chaise, stood, and lifted her forehead to mine, pushing at me affectionately. Then she sat down, curled up against my leg, and placed her paws on top of my fingers. There she stayed, purring for an hour.
At first, I thought something must be wrong, that she was sick. Was her autoimmune disease flaring up with a vengeance? Perhaps, I thought, she knew she was dying. No. She was simply being her true self, an inherent self I’d never seen behaving so openly and expressively, seeking and enjoying connection.
Once emotionally shutdown and timid, Hannah now displays a full range of behaviors. She is, I think, finally living a fulfilling, whole feline life. Curling up beside me on the chaise has become an evening ritual. So has play-fighting with Sam around the portable radiator she once put as a barrier between her and her brother (the “fighting” then progresses to a “cat-and-mouse” chase, or Hannah tackling Sam in a wrestling match). A few minutes later, they’re sleeping. In the past, I’d have run from this beautiful, sweet life playing out in front of me. Not anymore.
– TLS
{Writer’s note: I’m very honored and happy to announce that my memoir Notes on Proper Usage, has been selected for the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund Literary Award. Notes on Proper Usage is a memoir about my relationship with my late writer-editor mother, in which Hannah and Sam have cameo appearances.}
Touching explanation of love, friendship and understanding. My how you all have grown in love and trust.