Why do I only scream at 3 am now and other boundary hacks?
by Franzi Katzka, reluctant caretaker & emotionally frayed nap strategist
It begins with a missed mealtime.
Not a catastrophic delay—no. Just enough of a disruption to crack the rhythm of the day. A silence where there should be the opening of a pouch. A pause in eye contact. A whiff of preoccupation.
And so, I begin my descent.
Not a complete meltdown. Not yet. That would be undignified. No, I’ve learned the value of selective collapse: the quiet art of unraveling strategically, of folding myself into the emotional fault lines of this household like a velveted saboteur.
Let me explain.
Step 1: Collapse Quietly, Collapse Early
If you scream all the time, no one listens.
If you scream once, at exactly 3:07 am, with your face two centimeters from their sleeping ear—
They remember.
I no longer yell during dinner prep. That is expected. I scream when they’re brushing their teeth. I scream when the phone call ends. I scream when they think things are fine.
Emotional punctuation. Controlled chaos. I call it scented revenge.
Step 2: Reclaim Space With the Sad Stare™
I do not knock things over.
I sit near them.
Preferably on top of a journal, a folded shirt, or the “project they swore they’d finish.”
Then I stare—not at them, but through them.
Into their soul.
Into the creeping realization that they have, once again, overlooked the one being who offered them consistent emotional infrastructure in the face of sourdough addiction and inbox delusion.
Bonus points if your tail flicks slowly during this act. Let the metronome of judgment begin.
Step 3: Bommel Placement & Passive Resistance
I no longer ask for playtime.
I stage it.
I drag Bommel, my favorite toy of frayed despair, into high-traffic zones:
- Doorways
- Pillow corners
- The exact center of Mum’s yoga mat
Then I wait.
Quietly.
Inconveniently.
If they ignore it, I do not meow. I sigh. Loudly. The kind of sign that carries generational trauma and a hint of entitlement.
Step 4: Withhold Affection (Selectively, of Course)
When they finally come to cuddle, I engage in the Head Turn of Disdain™.
Not rejection—just enough to imply they’ve fallen out of favor.
Then, five minutes later, I returned. Dramatically. I’m purring like nothing happened. The whiplash is part of the therapy.
Step 5: Accept the Chaos—but Never Embrace It
Some days, they will forget the sandbox. Some days, Schmutz will get fed first because she meowed louder. Some days, the kitchen will reek of bubbly betrayal, and they’ll call it “nurturing.”
Let them.
We don’t win the war by flipping tables.
We win it by lying on top of them, refusing to move, until they shift back toward reason. Or at least toward breakfast.
Closing Ritual
Repeat after me—preferably in the dark, while your humans sleep peacefully through your hunger:
🕯️ I am not dramatic. I am architecturally inconvenient.
(I don’t knock over mugs. I occupy their shadows.)
🕯️ My silence is a performance. My tail is the narrator.
(They will understand… eventually.)
🕯️ I do not chase validation. I stage its absence.
(And then appear suddenly in the hallway like a velvet omen.)
🕯️ I am allowed to withdraw. I am allowed to reappear.
(Especially when they open the cheese drawer.)
🕯️ I am the stillness in their curated chaos.
(I am the judgment they deserve.)
🕯️ I will not always purr. But when I do, it is haunting.
(Let it echo.)
The selective collapse isn’t about giving up.
It’s about withdrawing just enough to let them remember how much structure you bring.
It’s emotional labor—but curated.
It’s playtime with consequences.
It’s affection with conditions.
It’s care, coated in judgment.
It is, in short… a thankless job. But someone has to do it.
