Thankful Thursday: Puppy Love

Outside of my family and a select group of friends who stood by me when I decided to get sober, my longest and healthiest relationship in the world is with my dog, Clementine.  She's an eight year old Rottweiler/Blue Heeler mix, and we've been together for almost seven years.  Today, I am grateful for my beastly baby and all she's taught me.

My darling Clementine, 4 years and 40 lbs ago.

She was found wandering skinny, hungry and alone in a blizzard by a family my father worked with.  They took her in and tried their best to make things work, but she was too much for their 3 bedroom home and family of 5, so they began looking at other options.  When they mentioned the possibility of getting rid of her in front of my father, he thought of me immediately.  Not only have I been an animal lover and rescuer my entire life, my birthday was coming up.   When he called and asked if I would be interested in adopting a dog, he explained that she was "a few months old", but that no one knew her exact age.  He also told me that she'd been found abandoned during the winter, and my heart melted.  I agreed to be her human before meeting her or even seeing a picture.  I had no idea how to be a dog-person (up to that point, I'd always been a cat person), but I liked the idea of having a dog, and her story broke my heart.  I knew she had to be mine.

So, four days after my birthday in April of 2008, I loaded a small kennel and a good friend into the car and set out to pick up my new baby.  When I finally arrived at my destination, I discovered that the puppy I had expected to take home was actually some sort of half dog-half puppy hybrid, not to mention the most gangly creature I'd ever laid eyes on.  She was wearing an old, faded red collar with extra holes punched in it in order to fit her properly, and she cowered when the children of the house wandered by.  She was so desperate to be please, so pitiful and tentative....It was love at first sight.

Playing copilot.  She rides better these days,

I was told that her name was "Kitty", but that she wouldn't answer to it.  I was relieved to hear that, because when I decided to adopt her, I'd already had a name picked out.  I remember scratching her ears and chin and asking if she would be my Clementine.  She may or may not have had any idea what I was talking about, but she smiled and wagged her tail.  I took that as a good sign and officially renamed her.  From that moment on, she was my little baby citrus fruit.

When everyone had said their goodbyes and it was time to load her up, I realized she definitely wouldn't fit into the kennel that I brought along.  I stashed it in the trunk and opened the back door of the car, ready to welcome Clementine to her new life.  She was so unsure as she climbed into the car.  She was hunched low to the ground with her tail between her legs, and she quickly folded herself into a tiny ball on the floor of the back seat.  There was absolutely no amount of coaxing that would get her to move onto the seats themselves, each time I tried to place her there comfortably, she would wince and whine.  Finally, I gave up, deciding that she probably knew what would make her most comfortable.  It was a boring, quiet trip home.  She didn't move a muscle or make a sound, she just laid in a sad little ball on the floor.

The first several weeks were HARD. Clementine was a difficult dog to train and a difficult creature
to contend with.  After all, she was young and full of energy.  She was in that horrible teething stage

that dog's go through when they're growing up.  She'd gone through at least 2 other owners and had no sense of who her master or pack leader was.  She had no sense of stability or home.  She was timid and emotional, as though she'd had an owner who screamed at her rather than training her.  She was also sneaky, stealthy and faster than a speeding bullet.  Within the first month, she managed to destroy over half of my wardrobe and several pieces of furniture.  She also had an incredible knack for escaping.

Despite any and all of her flaws, my love for her only got stronger as time went on.  There's nothing quite like the feeling of coming home after a long day to see your dog's eyes turn into cartoon hearts the moment they lay eyes on you.  The relationship I was in at the time, like most of my relationships up to that point, was built on a foundation of loneliness and an inability to stand on my own.  We were companions (bad ones) and that was pretty much it.  Clementine was my first experience with unconditional love.

That was also when I was in the beginning stages of working through my depression after the mental hospital.  I was going to therapy, I was taking a plethora of different medications (for a plethora of different mental health ailments), I was reading a lot of philosophy....  Basically, I was just trying to learn how to be a happy, healthy person.  That's when Clementine started to change my life.

Grown up, going gray, and too fat for her chair.

It started with getting active.  Having a dog isn't exactly the same as having a cat.  It's not a sedentary activity, especially if the dog is young.  When I realized that Clementine was chewing everything in
my life because she was bored and all hopped up on youth, I started taking her for walks regularly.  Not only did that seem to quench her thirst for  destruction, but I noticed a marked improvement in my mood after our walks.  After a week or two of consistent walks, she began to leave slack in the leash.  She stopped worrying about every passing smell and squirrel and we were able to walk the entirety of the town without me feeling like my arms were going to fall out of their sockets.  She began listening to me at home, she began coming to her name 10 times out of 10.  She started to understand how to sit, how to lay, how to roll over. I'd never been so proud of anything.  Each time she learned or accomplished something new, my heart would swell with pride.  It took her a while, but she finally accepted me as leader of the pack and as a consistent presence in her life.  I may have decided that she was my dog the day I got her, but it took Clementine a lot longer to decide that I was her person.

Eventually, the relationship I was in fell apart.  He had been seeing another woman, and even though I had suspected for some time, I was devastated.  We were living together, so we had to divide the assets and figure out who would take what to their new life.  It wasn't exactly amicable, but he knew better than to fight me on dog custody.  He moved in with his new girlfriend while Clementine and I moved back home with my parents.

It ended up being the ideal situation for the two of us.  She loved my parent's ancient Collie, and it
wasn't long before she started imitating their dog's behavior.  In less than a month, that frail, graying puffball had my dog better trained than I had in almost a year.  My parent's house also provided Clementine with a dead-end street and almost an acre of property to explore.  I was able to trust her outside without a leash or tie-out in almost no time.

Once I was able to trust her without a leash, I started taking her to parks.  We would visit parks and wild-life reserves in every county surrounding us.  I'd let her off the leash and explore while she ran and danced in circles around me, like I was her Sun and she was stuck in my orbit.


She still acts like that when I take her out, though her run has slowed to an enthusiastic trot.

Throughout the last several years, my dog has been a constant source of smiles, happiness, cuddles and companionship.  On my darkest, saddest days, when I feel low and worthless, I just look at her face and take comfort in knowing that I sure did something right with her.
The gangly little dog that I brought home from that trailer park in 2008 has swelled into a 95 lb cuddle monster with a passion for car rides, cuddles and blankets.  She is jealous and bashful and protective and fierce, but she's also gentle and self-conscious.  She helped teach me about what it means to loyal and trusting.  She helped me realize what unconditional love actually looks like.

More than anything, though, Clementine has taught me that you can solve any problem and face any obstacle as long as you have patience, compassion and a sense of humor.  I'm so grateful that I took a chance and adopted this ridiculous, emotive little beast, but I'm far more grateful to be her person.

Thankful Thursday: Music Festivals

I've been thinking a lot about the things that I'm thankful for, and there are so many obvious things that I actually struggled with narrowing it down a bit.  So today I'm giving thanks for music festivals and the wonderful ripple effect they had on my life.

My first music festival was just a few miles outside of the town I went to school in and it was being thrown by a fantastic guy who helped coach our individual speech teams in high school, Hippie Bill.  I believe it was the first year that events were being held at Hidden Acres Music Farm, and it was the last event of the year: Fall Frolic Festival.  At that time in life, I was fresh out the mental hospital and pretty fragile.  I was still depressed, unsure what to do with my life, unsure who I wanted to be or how I would ever be happy (you know, typical 19 year old stuff!)  I saw a posting on Facebook about a contest for free tickets to the festival, so I entered and won 2 "VIP passes". 

I gave one ticket to a friend, bought one ticket for a friend, and then loaded up a tent and a bag of chips and a bottle of water and got in the car, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

When I got to Hidden Acres, I experienced a huge deal of culture shock.  There were women running around in tutus with wings and bells on, shirtless men with long hair, beards, tie dye and face paint.  There were children handing out flowers and giving people hugs.  Each time we passed a stranger, we were greeted with hugs and smiles, with "welcome homes" and "have fun's".  An entire flock of people put up our tent and then pranced off into the cornfields.  For someone who grew up in a small community, being universally hated and mistreated, sticking out like a sore thumb, it was wild.

I remember wandering around the grounds over and over.  I walked past the stages and the food/jewelry/clothing vendors.  I didn't care about the music or the entertainment, I just wanted to see more of these people---my people.  I remember thinking, "Oh my god, my fellow freaks!!  Where have you been my whole life?!"

Eventually, I kind of settled into the experience.  Being that I have always been anxious and socially awkward, I didn't go out of my way to make friends or even talk to people, really.  I had a few conversations throughout the night, but mostly I just wandered around in awe, trying to take everything in.  I ventured through fairy and pirate themed camps, sitting down when I found a fire surrounded by other quiet contemplatives.  

It was the first time I'd ever experienced a sense of belonging.  I'd never, ever felt like I'd had a place or a tribe before, but as I looked around at all the free-spirits, freaks, hippies, gypsies and flower children, it occurred to me that THIS was exactly what I had been searching for.  

I remember trying to go to sleep that first night.  My friends and I laid in the tent giggling hysterically for hours.  We developed a closeness and bond that I don't think we would have been able to discover otherwise; it was just kind of understood that it was where we all belonged.

After that I was hooked.  I became a regular at Hidden Acres, volunteering every chance I could.  I still felt a bit out of my element, but I knew with absolute certainty that I belonged there.  

More of my friends started trekking out to the festivals and suddenly we had transformed from a group of friends to a family.  Instead of hanging out and watching a movie, we were building fires together, cooking together, going on road trips, dancing and playing together.  We were gathering in this beautiful place with beautiful people, finally realizing that without judgment we could be whoever we wanted.  We were opening our minds, learning about new religions and philosophies and ways to identify ourselves.  We got to learn about each other and ourselves in the safest, freest place I've found (in the Midwest, that is.  Perspective, people.)  

Even now, though it's been almost 2 years since I last went to a festival, I see the lasting effects of this lifestyle all around me: it's in the music I listen to, the books I read, the art that I enjoy, the people I relate to, the friends that I have, the activities I enjoy.  In fact, I owe Hidden Acres a huge debt of gratitude because that's where my husband proposed to me--it was a safe place for us to be open and vulnerable with each other when our relationship was still new and unsure.  Had things turned out differently, we would have been married there....

But that's a story for a different day.

I have so much love in my heart for those immortal summers at Hidden Acres, and I owe so much of who I am to the path I started down at Fall Frolic 2008.  If there was a time in my life I could go back to, that would be it.....

I'm so glad I got the chance to experience it.

Regret.

Facebook is kind of like a philosophical dumping ground where quotes by famous thinkers and feelers go to be misinterpreted until they fade into irrelevance.  Not a lot of topics make this more clear than the one of regret.  It seems like someone is always talking about how life is too short to have regrets.... And while that's all great in theory, I think that we can learn a lot from our regrets.  I know I have.

When you lose someone you love, regret is kind of an instant reaction.  Your mind starts spiraling as you wonder about the last things you said, the last things you did, the last thoughts you had....  In the case of my grandmother, this is a particularly difficult subject.

My grandmother was the strongest human being I've ever met.  She may have been "past her prime" when I knew her, but I don't think anybody had bothered to mention that to her--probably because they were scared.  She grew up on a homestead, so growing up she was a bit of a tom-boy.  Her favorite toy was her BB gun, followed by a shotgun when she was old enough to upgrade.  She raised chickens and pigs and cows and goats, she planted and picked vegetables in the garden.  When she grew up, she became a nurse.  I think out of all of the things she saw and went through, that may have hardened her the most  She used to tell me stories about working in the neo-natal unit of a hospital early in her career.  She didn't get to work with the beautiful little cherubs who had all their fingers and toes; my grandma took care of premature babies, ones with birth defects and abnormalities. (I think it left a mark on her, because one of the only things I knew about her for a long time was that she wasn't entirely fond of children....)  My grandmother went on to get married to the man who would become my grandfather.  I don't know much about my grandfather, really, since he died when my father and uncle were children.  I know that he was received a Presidential Pardon from Nixon that allowed him to work at the Post Office, and I know that he was very fond of the booze.  I also know that, on occasion, he would get drunk and mean and abusive with my grandmother.  Being that she was a strong, independent, woman that didn't sit well with her...  She didn't believe in divorce, and she had a great deal of love for my grandfather, so instead of leaving him or going to counseling, she started hiding baseball bats in corners.  My grandfather would get drunk and go to hit her and my grandma would have a baseball bat in her arms, ready to come at him swinging.....

That story always makes me smile.  I mean, it's a horrible, unhealthy situation and abuse isn't a laughing matter, but it just shows the woman's tenacity.  She was fearless.  She was strong.  She was willing and able to defend herself and her family, regardless of what or who she was up against....  When I think about my grandma, that is what I like to think about.

I suppose it's because the realities of our relationship were kind of harsh and severe.  I don't want to make it sound like there wasn't love there, but the way my grandmother showed her love was difficult for a child to understand.  She could be cold and cruel, sharp and cutting.  I remember being very scared of her when I was a kid because she was incredibly hard on me.  She always seemed to favor my brother, and it showed.   I think a little girl may have just been out of her wheelhouse because she grew up in a rougher, tougher time and then raised a family of boys...  I suppose the reasons don't matter.  I never cared enough to look for them when I was younger, and now that I'm capable of understanding, I can only take guesses.....

What I'm trying to say is that the foundation for our relationship wasn't necessarily sturdy or solid.  There was more love in the relationship than I could ever understand, but there was always this distance between us.

That faded away quite a bit when I grew up and got married.  During that time, she also moved in with my Aunt and Uncle because she couldn't live on her own anymore (she was capable of mobility, but suffered from dizzy spells that would cause her to lose her balance, fall and bruise the entire length of her body.)  When they would go on dates or on day trips, they would call me and ask me to come sit with her for a few hours in case she needed anything.  I didn't dig the idea, but I did it.   I figured, "Hey, she probably had better things to do than baby sit me when I was a kid."  So I sucked it up.

Sometimes it was enjoyable, sometimes it wasn't.

Her health and mobility started to decline fairly rapidly after that.  I didn't see it at the time.  I mean, I noticed certain limitations but I didn't realize what they implied and how much alarm they should cause.  Suddenly it wasn't just sitting with her anymore....suddenly it was meal prep and planning, runs to the store, preparing her medications, taking her to doctors appointments, helping her shower, helping her change her adult diapers...  I did it.  Knowing my grandma, I figured that it was worse for her to have to ask for help than it was for me to have to help her.  I sat with her, I helped her, I hung out with her, but I didn't appreciate any of it....

I was always checking the clock--checking to see how much time was left on my sentence.  I was always rolling my eyes when she asked for a third cup of coffee or another piece of cake.

When my aunt and uncle called to have me check on my grandma the night I found her body, I didn't want to go.  I'd already changed into my pajamas, I'd taken my shoes and bra off.  I remember, very clearly, thinking to myself, "I don't want to deal with this," when I hung up the phone.  Then I sat on the couch and watched TV for a few minutes---not feeling any sense of urgency.  And that was the last thought I had about my grandmother in the present tense.....

I know those weren't the last minutes of her life; they were the last minutes of my perception of her life.  I know that, but it doesn't make anything easier.  It doesn't change anything.

I live with that regret every day--knowing that I was more concerned with having a lazy night in than with making sure my grandmother was taken care of and tucked in for the evening. It hurts me to know I was that selfish--that concerned about myself, that preoccupied with my own shit....  But it has taught me how valuable time is.

I may not have enjoyed every second spent taking care of my grandma or helping her, but I got to hear so many stories.  I got to learn so much about her and her life and her marriage and the way she saw the world.  I got to know her in a way that I doubt many get to know their grandparents.... And I cherish it.

The regret I feel for my actions--the way I thought about things, the way I was out for myself--has helped me see what wonderful gifts I received from my grandmother.  It's also taught me not to make the same mistakes with others....to cherish every second I get to spend with my loved ones and to be thankful that, out of all the people in the world, they asked for my help and my time....

So I don't hope for a life free of regrets because they are valuable.  If you're willing to take an honest look at yourself and make some changes in your life, regret can be the one of the most valuable emotions you feel because it'll light a fire inside of you.

And I think we all need that sometimes.

What do I do?

I often get discouraged by my own depression.  I suppose that doesn't make sense, but I don't know how else to articulate it.  I mean, depression is kind of like being discouraged all the time.....  What I'm trying to say is that I hate taking my depression seriously.  I tend to be incredibly hard on myself, and instead of wallowing for a minute, I'm always pushing.

When I feel tears start to form, I think to myself, "Okay...you have five minutes to feel panicked and depressed, then you need to get your shit together and figure this out."  Sometimes I even set a timer.

It's just that, I know what the bottom looks like and I have every intention of avoiding it for the rest of my life.

When I went to the mental hospital seven years ago, I was diagnosed with a myriad of things.  Panic disorder, anxiety, agoraphobia....you name it.   My Axis 1 diagnosis was listed as Major Depressive Disorder (you can read about it here).  It's a different kind of depression that what you most generally hear about and it's categorized by recurring periods of depression.  When I was in the loony bin, I was told that without proper medication, I would almost certainly find myself experiencing these cycles for the rest of my life.

I tried the pharmaceutical approach for a long time but it was so hit and miss.  When one medication made my feelings worse and my thoughts darker, they would change the dosage or change the medicines all together.  They told me it was all a matter of trial and error--that by process of elimination they would eventually find one that worked for me.  Any pill that was able to lift my mood left me feeling bogged down by the side-effects.  Welbutrin would stop me from sleeping, so they had to prescribe trazodone.  Trazodone gave me crippling panic attacks, so they had to prescribe ativan.  Ativan left me feeling zonked and it made me gain weight, so they wanted to prescribe a diet drug.....

After a while, it got out of control.  Not only did the medicines fail to improve my mood, but they left me unable to take pleasure in anything.  Food didn't taste good, I was unable to have an orgasm, I was gaining weight despite the fact that I had no appetite, I suffered chronic headaches, I was distracted and unable to focus....  Eventually I gave up on the whole thing.  I stopped going to my appointments and I stopped taking my medications.  (I certainly don't recommend this!!!!)  I started reading philosophy and forcing myself to get out of my comfort zone--out of my shell.

That's when things started to change for me.

Now that I am experiencing a similar (though very different) kind of a depression creeping up inside of me, I am reminded of all those small changes I made to my life.

When I first began making changes, one of the things that I did when I found myself in a situation that caused me to react with sadness or discouragement, I'd ask myself, "What is my responsibility here?"  And then I'd just kind of follow the bread-crumb trail and reverse-engineer a solution.

Grief is such a different kind of sadness.....  It's not just about removing yourself from isolation and finding pleasure in small things (although that is a part of it),

What is my responsibility in terms of dealing with grief?  Beyond taking care of myself and allowing myself to mourn and be sad, I am at a loss.

And, to be honest, I really suck at allowing myself to feel negative emotions.  I find it indulgent.  My ego kicks in and a little voice in the back of my head starts saying things like, "Suck it up," "get over it," "get your shit together, there's no time for this."

I don't know why my self-talk is so harsh....  I'd never speak to someone I loved that way, yet...here I am, berating myself for feeling emotions that, I think, are pretty fucking valid.

It's kind of ridiculous when I think critically about it, but I don't know how to proceed from here.

If you're not happy, change your life.

I've struggled with depression for as long as I can remember.  Attending a small school in a small town didn't help as I was a bit of a pariah...  I'm sure there were loads of things I could have done to make my life easier, but I never bothered thinking about it.  See, my biggest preoccupation in those days was getting through the day.  The entire population of my high school was around 250, and I had--on a good day--probably 3 friends.  I was so monstrously unpopular that when kids brushed by me in the hallway, they would recoil as if I was infected with some sort of loser-flu.  If contact was made they would theatrically jump away in horror and repulsion.

Imagine for a moment: you're young, you're insecure with yourself, and at a really pivotal point of self-development and the only reaction you illicit from your peers is disgust.  It's the kind of thing that sticks with you, ya know?  It's the kind of thing that, even after a decade, makes it hard to look in the mirror.

I don't think I have to say too much more for you to get the point that, upon graduating, I was kind of an emotionally insecure wreck.  I had no self-esteem to speak of, and felt as though that would never change, so shortly after graduating high school and moving out of state to attend college, I tried to kill myself.

I was hospitalized in a state funded in-patient facility for ten days.  As dark as things were at that point, I maintain that those were ten of the best days of my life.

Recovery wasn't instant, but my experience being hospitalized taught me one incredibly pivotal thing:  if you aren't happy with your life, it is yours to change.  From then on, I took a very active role in my mental health and emotional well-being.  I took complete responsibility for my happiness and was able to keep that momentum going for a long time....

Until just short of six months ago, actually, when life threw me a series of curveballs that have left me reeling.

August 19th, 2014, one of the best friends I've ever had passed away.  He was an Airborne Army MP with a future brighter than the sun.  He was also one of the greatest humans I've ever known.  He visited me in the mental hospital shortly after I tried to kill myself and he gave me a piece of advice that changed the way I thought about the world.  He said, "You're going to die.  That's the one and only thing that you are guaranteed in life.  It's the one certain.  Yeah, you could kill yourself...  You could take that one thing that you know is coming right now.  Or you could go fucking live.  You can go out and do all of those things that AREN'T guaranteed.  Fall in love, get married, start a family, go to college, run a marathon, write a book....  Whatever.  Death is always going to be there, so go chase the things that aren't promised."  We fell out of touch when he joined the military, but I always remembered those words--that talk.  I always assumed that we would find each other again---that our friendship would be rekindled and we'd pick up where we left off.  I shouldn't have taken that for granted....  He was 26 years old.

Four days later, on August 23rd, 2014, I received a call from my aunt and uncle asking me to check on my grandmother--who they'd left by herself while they went on a day-trip.  When I arrived at their home, I discovered that she had passed away.  It didn't seem real at first.  I thought that if I pulled on her hands or shook her arms enough that she might wake up, but she didn't.  I was alone in the dark with her body for what felt like several minutes before I was about to think straight again...  When clarity set in, I dashed to my parent's home and called for help. She was 81 years old.

As traumatic as it was to find a body, it wasn't the end of the saga. In late September, my husband and I received a call from his step-father.  We were told that his mother was in a medically induced coma and on life-support.  We were able to make the trip to Michigan to visit, but when we got there, the prognosis was grim.  So, on October 5th, 2014, my husband, his step-father and I, all gathered in her hospital room and held her hand while they took her breathing tube out.  We watched her struggle to free herself from her mortal bonds for over an hour before taking her last breath.  She was 54 years old.

In the wake of these tragedies, I find myself once again in the recesses of depression and grief and trauma, only this time the answers seem to illude me.  I'm not sure of how to take responsibility of my happiness in this case.....  I don't know what changes to make in order to find happiness once again.

I guess, in a round-about way, this leads me to the point of this whole blog: Finding happiness, finding self-acceptance, learning how to become a whole person again, healing from trauma, learning to laugh, learning to open myself up, learning to take life less seriously because, when you've looked death in the face, you realize how little anything truly matters.

I apologize for the heaviness of this post, but know that things will get lighter because that's the whole purpose of what I'm doing here.  This blog is about my journey back to myself and, hopefully, how to help yourself stand up straight again.