Starving and Stubborn

She ran her gloved hands along the back of my cat’s black fur and pulled her from the carrier. Dainty paws dangled from her seven-pound body, trusting the veterinarian’s care. Trust or submission, I’m not sure.

My mom and I sat in plastic chairs. I leaned in, chin on fists, watching as we ruled out causes for the hunger strike. Gums, nice and pink. Heartbeat, steady and surprisingly calm for a trip to the emergency clinic. Lungs, however lungs should sound. 

“Huh,” I breathed out, letting my bewilderment float in the fluorescent-lit cool space of the tiled room. Going on day four of refusing any food. She’d skipped her daily routine of zooming and bounding off furniture, batting at dog snouts, and rolling in slices of sun that poured through the curtains. Fern was not herself.

We went home with a simple, not-worth-hundreds-of my dollars diagnosis. Stubborn. This little one was apparently not okay with my house full of weekend guests, so instead of grabbing a cardboard sign to picket the unwelcome visitors, she committed to a hunger strike.

She stayed silent (now mute and starving) in her mint green carrier on the short drive home, but I still had plenty of time to go on a rant about the absurdity of her little theatrics. You’ll never catch me refusing food for days to prove a point. Nope, not me. What would that prove anyway?

Now that Fern’s back to indulging in her gourmet meals twice a day, I realize that maybe stubbornness festers somewhere in all of us. It’s living in the dark until something, or someone, bursts into our lives with baggage and opinions, making themselves right at home in our presence. Our routines, thrown off course. A full-on territory invasion.

When I feel like I’ve lost all control, I laser focus on the one thing that maybe I still have a say over. You tell me to do something a certain way, and it’s almost guaranteed that I’ll try it a different way just to stand my ground. I’m even stubborn against myself sometimes. Against that whisper I hear that reminds me I really need to call that friend or forgive that person. Don’t tell me what to do—watch me stomp my foot, dig my heels into the ground, and resist. 

All the while, I might be starving myself in more ways than I realize. 

While the whisper can sometimes be my own guilt, what if it’s God calling me to let go of a grudge or move toward a healthier life. If we resist long enough, those whispers become quieter and the nudge to listen must tap through another layer each time. The wall builds, numbness sets in, and I’ve become so territorial over my own heart that I don’t even notice that I’m not feeling sadness, loss, or longing anymore. 

In stubbornness, we can get to a point of apathy. What feels like strength and independence is really a resistance against what’s best for us. A fence built so high it keeps both the bad and the good out. 

For Fern, her fragile bubble of control held just a dish of food and water. Everyone, go away and then I’ll eat.

For me, and maybe for you, it’s lost relationships, lack of community, doing things the hard way simply to prove a point. But eventually, we may look around, and no one’s even watching anymore, no audience to prove anything to, and the damage only piles in our own lives.