I'm not what you would call a "pet" "person." I literally cannot handle pet hair. Like. Cannot. It is.
I. Cannot.
Also, know how they are called pets on account of a person could touch them and connect and feel comforted and such? I think that is just. I mean.
I. Cannot.
So, it made perfect sense that I would get a fish.Frankly, I blame dead grandma.
Well. That isn't really fair. One, because it isn't like her last words to me were: get a fish, baby. And two, a few years ago, I thought about getting a fish but then all I could think was: Ugh. I would have to like, clean the tank. And so much work. And do I really want one? I can barely keep these plants alive. And barely is my being generous to myself.
In more recent times, though, I was feeling a stronger urge to have a living thing in my home. I was talking this over with a friend and he suggested a fish store in the area where I could look at my options and discuss them with trained professionals.
So a trip was taken. Do you know what there are a lot of in the world? Fish. Fish species. Fish sorts. Fish plants, food, bowls, tanks, sceneries and. My god. Just. So. Many. Fish.
I went to the store fully intending to come home with my fish and their tank and all the possible fish names and the dream of something living in my life. Instead I came to my home and had a complete breakdown. Like, there was crying and texts of help and anxiety. And more crying.
I am straight up mentally ill.
My friend suggested that actually I was excited about the possibility of a fish and the fun of building the tank but it was being expressed as fear. This was insightful and also I believe, partly true. Because of my afromentioned straight-up mental illness, excitement and happiness are complete shocks to my system and instead I went for my go-to feeling: fear, horror and more fear. I became so, so, so scared about owning a fish and what if it was the wrong fish? And I chose for it the wrong surroundings? What if it died? What if I didn't really want a fish but I wanted something that I could actually pet? What if I was finally accepted to teach abroad and was going to move away? Then I would have abandoned him? Is that the kind of "pet" "owner" I was?
All these unrealities to simply torture myself and to hide a truth of me: I allow my fears to suppress my joys. I think I have missed out on lots of happy times because of the fears; because of thinking I didn't deserve the joys. Considering this made me really want to change. All of this fear and horror and more fear is super exhausting. I am exhausted of carrying it and of having some many layers of feelings. I would like to feel calm and joy. I would like to be free.
So the next day, I went back to the store. I walked around forever. Looking at tanks and fish types and getting up the nerve to ask the salespeople a million questions about which fish would go best with which other fish. Naturally, the first person who offered to help me was a very petite, very strung-out on the crack-cocaine woman. I literally could not keep up with her. She ran from one side of the store to the complete polar opposite side. I showed her the one I was initially interested it and she was able to find, in under one minute, 75,000 other similar fish and both their desirable and undesirable companions.
The temperature of that store, combined with all of the water makes for a climate akin to a subtropic region. The climate, my terrible fear-excitement, fearcitement, if you will, and the act of chasing that woman around had me in a panic. She would briefly pause near a tank, rest her leg on a shelf and then begin very intensely rubbing said leg back and forth as she gave me a very jittery oration on the details and apparent personality of every single fish which has ever lived. She was pushing for which types liked and then would become transfixed with one. The rubbing would stop long enough for her to itch and sway and say which were her favorite and why and how they would likely die.
I could feel my breakdown returning. I was finally able to lose her, by which I mean, she ran somewhere and I remained stationary. I hid in a corner staring at fish castles trying to compose myself and decide if I still really wanted any of this.
A drug-free saleswoman approached me and provided me with some legitimate, calm help. I continued walking around. I found a really lovely fish who appeared to be wearing mascara and I was all: you go, fish. She (Well, I think it was a she. I have no way of knowing. I mean, there are ways to know to fish gender, but I am not adept at those ways, so let's just go with she because it is me telling this story) seemed like my fish. I walked away from her long enough to find the un-intoxicated saleswoman to ask more about what this fish would need in order to not be dead the next morning but she was helping someone else. I saw other people approach the tank where my lovely mascara-ed fish was and the panic was back. That was MY fish. Ya'll strangers better recognize!
Do people say that anymore?
Anyways...I didn't say that but I did go back over to keep guard over her. The saleswoman told me all the things the fish would need, including little other fish for motion so that it would not die of depression. So I walked around more and began the practicality of caring for a living thing which always boils down to money. As it turns out, fish, fish tanks, fish food, and fish decor cost several million pretty pennies. Then I started to remember who I was. I am the most fickle. I also don't really want a pet. Also, remember all of my dead plants? What are you doing, Liantonio?
So I walked over to the beta wall. I looked at all of those solitary, angry fish. Some appeared to be in comas. Then I found him. He was red but because of the shape of the bowls and the water distortion, it was hard to really tell what he looked like. I turned the bowl and that fish seemed like he would kill every molecule. Me being me, I turned the bowl more. And oh my did that enrage him! I spent more time staring at him, rotating his environs. Walking over to different bowls.
Two hours later I had his home, a castle, sparkly accoutrement for the bottom of the bowl, and one angry, angry Betta.
I have named him Futomaki (FOOO-TOE-MAH-KEY) which is a kind of sushi. I call him Futo for short. He is a weirdo.
Do you see that little castle in the background? I mostly got it because I thought it would be cute. Futo routinely hides in it. I have never seen a fish do that. Part of me finds that endearing, part of me thinks it is an indication that this fish and I have matching dysfunctions, and part of me thinks this means Futo is real, real dumb on account of it is a clear, small bowl, with a small castle and when he "hides" in it, his head and bottom still poke out, and also, it is a clear bowl. Sooooooooooo, I can totally see him. He would make the worst spy ever.
I have cleaned his bowl several times since his adoption. He freaks out every time. He goes limp in the fish-net. I transfer him to a different container to clean out his little bowl. As I pour him into the new container I feel like he clings to the edge, pleading for none of this to happen again. In the temporary bowl, he swims around in frantic, furious circles. I used to feed him after the cleaning as his reward for making it through the trauma, but once he is all set in the newly cleaned bowl, he goes on a hunger strike. All of the food eventually falls to the bottom and then I am annoyed because now it is no longer clean. He hides in the castle or lays among the fake plant leaves on his back staring up at the top, as if to ask: What did I ever do to deserve this? Why? WHHHHHYYYYYYY? Last week, he just laid on the pebbles on the bottom of the bowl for several hours not moving. I was certain he was dead.
After bringing him home, I was still terrified. There was more crying. I woke up after the first night and asked: "Futo, are you dead?" He did not answer me, thank goodness, but that is because fish don't talk or if they do, I can't hear them since they live underwater and I don't speak 'fish', not because he was dead.
Sometimes I talk to him. I don't think he cares for that. I think he is annoyed when I come home from work each day. But I still like having him around. I am impressed that he remains alive, and actually with myself because despite my fears, I did it. I have my own little, freak pet. There is more life in my home because I didn't let the fear take away everything. Hopefully one day I will conquer more fears. This is just my start.
Little weirdo.
