Let me restate that: My Emotional Support Animal is on Prozac.
Is this true irony or just the Alanis Morissette kind? Actually, I think it's perfect. Let me explain...
A little over two years ago I was sitting in my counselor's office, discussing my teenage battle with what I would later realize was depression.
"And how did you cope when you were feeling bad?" she asked.
I thought about it for a minute. "Well," I said. "I would take my dog for a walk. Or go for a long drive with my dog in the passenger seat. Or sometimes I would just curl up with my dog and cry."
Notice a pattern here? So did my counselor. She recommended I get another dog. I'd been wanting one for years. My beloved childhood dog, Charlie, had passed away several years earlier, and I felt I'd finally healed enough to bring a new dog into my life. Only, by that time K and I had moved into an apartment complex that didn't allow dogs. Well, not pet dogs. But this dog wasn't going to be just a pet. She was going to be a tool in the management of my depression. Thank goodness for the Fair Housing Act. One little note from my mental health professional and I was off to get myself a new puppy with my apartment manager's blessing.
Getting a puppy instead of an adult dog was my first mistake. I'd forgotten how much work those little whimpering bundles of poop and pee are. There were times I didn't think I could handle it. There were times I literally broke down in tears because I didn't think I had the emotional strength to deal with her. There were times I seriously considered giving her up. But I didn't. I powered through it. I'd made a commitment and I was going to see it through. But, as difficult and draining as it was, the constant attention this little puppy needed was an effective distraction from my disease. I was still depressed, but at least I didn't have time to sit and wallow in it. And when little baby Sparky was calmly snuggled up in my arms or happily licking my face, I actually felt moments of true happiness. Those moments, however few and far between, made it all worthwhile.
My second mistake was limiting my search to two specific breeds: Border Collies and Australian Shepherds. And what luck, Sparky was both! My little herding dog was going to be adorable and smart as a whip. But in my pursuit of a clever canine I had also chosen breeds famous for their neurotic behavior and high levels of anxiety. I first started to see signs of these traits when Sparky reached puberty. My happy, friendly puppy slowly morphed into a cautious, frightened, and reactive young dog with no identifiable cause. As a pup she would run toward every person we passed on the sidewalk, sometimes plopping down directly in their path so they'd have no choice but to acknowledge her. Now she barks and hides if a stranger attempts to pet her or enter her home. She used to pester every other dog she encountered to play with her. Now she snaps at any dog that sniffs her for just a little too long. It breaks my heart to see her in so much distress, and I feel like I owe it to her to do whatever I can to make her life happier. So I read book after book about canine anxiety. I do training sessions with her every day. I expose her to lots of friendly dogs and people. And now, I medicate her. It's too early to tell if the medication is helping, but I am hopeful.
I sometimes wonder where Sparky would be today if someone else had adopted her. Would someone else be willing to put in the time, effort, and money to help her cope with her extreme levels of anxiety? Or would her behavioral problems land her in a shelter, where her fear of strangers and aggression toward other dogs would likely prevent her from finding a new family? I may not be the only person who would be willing to deal with her issues. I may not even be the best person to help her. But right now I am the one she is counting on and the only person that loves her enough to try. And this is what keeps me going in those dark moments when my own disease is trying so hard to break me. It's what makes me put my keys down when I'm considering jumping in my truck and running away from my life. It's what calms me down when I'm rummaging through my medicine cabinet with tears in my eyes, desperate to end my suffering. It's what makes me pull the blade away from my wrist when I've convinced myself that the world would be better off without me. Because I look at her and I know that, at least for this one precious little nervous dog, it wouldn't be. And I can't let her down. She needs me. I don't care if that's an arrogant, overly-dramatic way of thinking about it because it's saved my life more times than I care to admit. Thankfully I haven't had one of these truly dark moments since I started medication, but I do still occasionally catch myself fantasizing about running away or not being alive. And all it takes is a quick glance at the dog snuggled up by my side to snap me out of it. So that's why I think it's fitting that my Emotional Support Animal needs a little emotional support of her own. We are two crazy, messed-up peas in a pod, and it's a perfect match.
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