I cried at work

I'm not someone who cries much.  I'm too empathetic.  I know that doesn't make any sense, but being an empath can be a nightmare.  I had to learn how to handle it a long time ago.  Feeling your own feelings and then feeling everyone else's is just too much.  You can't function.

All the feelings.  Trying hard not to cry.  I am not sure why this picture exists.  Class play, grade two.  I was told I was not going to be in the play just before it began.  They gave my part away.  My little girl heart is crashing through the floor.  I am holding the programs they asked me to hand out.  Small consolation.

If I'm offering you full disclosure, I think it's very possible that I went too far in the other direction.  I can be cold and withdrawn.  I find it hard to cry tears of joy.  I sense the importance of the situation.  I do appreciate its magnitude.  Sometimes I just can't express that.

My husband, on the other hand, cries during The Empire Strikes Back when Han & Leia confess their love for one another.  Every.  Single.  Time.

I walk through many things observing, to save myself from becoming overwhelmed by emotion.  Many times I feel broken.  I have three children whom I desperately love and appreciate and worry over.  But when they were born I never cried.  I felt defective.  I worried so much I printed out a checklist for postpartum depression and asked my husband to check once a week.  I didn't have it (though PPD is a common issue affecting as many as 1 in 8 mothers--get screened so you can get the help you deserve), but I did have Anxiety with a capital A.  Every car trip was a door-clutching ride from hell because I was afraid of losing them in an accident.

My husband also has anxiety, but his manifests in ways that don't affect him on a day-to-day basis.  His fears are most similar to a hyperactive imagination.  He refuses many amusement park rides, wondering if the bolts and supports will snap, leaving him victim to the indiscriminate cruelty of physics.  It's not less, it's just different.

Five

Anxiety has been with me forever.  I didn't know what it was called back then, but I would lie awake as a child worrying that the house might catch fire.  I let my family sleep because I loved them, but I stayed awake watching over them like it was a job every five or six or seven year old should take on.  I knew that if I could catch the fire early, I could save them.  Sometimes I would sneak downstairs to check that the doors were locked.  When I would have nightmares, I would cry myself back to sleep because I didn't want to upset anyone else.  The feelings I had were palpable.  I can feel them again, when I remember.  Fear, that would chill me straight to my bones and the love.  Deep love.

By all measurements I had an average to above average childhood.  The joy of sharing a house with my grandparents for so many years meant that I could know them well and I remain deeply grateful for this.  The fact that that neighborhood was FILLED with children who were all within 4 years of my own age meant that every single day I had someone to play with and many many many adventures.  But I remember anxiety as well.  I remember a throng of kids playing a game in the street in front of my house (back then the kids on foot or on bike would spill into the roads at all times).  I wanted to play but I didn't understand the rules.  I crouched down, peering out the window.  I studied their movements and their words for what felt like an hour.  I tried to teach myself the game and when I was still confused, I slumped down and cried.  I was too afraid to ask.  When they knocked on my door I was already overwrought so I hid.  And these were my every-day friends!

Always outside

Directly next door were two brothers and a pool.  I played with the oldest boy regularly and had been inside their house many times.  I was told that I was welcome to swim I just had to ask first.  My voice and legs gave out every time.  The Big A was torturing me.  I would crouch between the trees that formed the borders of the two yards and hope to be seen.  I wanted to be noticed so badly.  Oh, the fun they were having!  I can still hear the splashing and laughter as I write this.  Sometimes I sat for hours.

To this day I cannot hear the ubiquitous music of an ice cream truck without sudden dread.  I saved my money for the ice cream truck and had it ready in my room, right near the door.  Oh, but what if I run for it an I am too late?  What if I don't have enough money after all?  What if I stand outside but it never comes down my street?

Music is serious business!

My family decided I was shy.  Though if you know me, shy is not really the word.  I have no problem speaking my mind.  I love talking to complete strangers and I have never ever backed away from being on stage.  I'm not a great singer, but I belted out solos in sixth grade chorus.  I'm happy to board a bus of complete strangers to cover a large political march many states away.  I frequently stood up at the city council microphone to defended a non-profit youth organization for whom I worked.  I taught for years.  Party filled with strangers?  Sounds great!  Shy just doesn't fit.

Anxiety is weird.

Let's talk about phones (but not on them).  I could hop a plane to a conference and make fast friends with strangers, having made all the arrangements entirely by phone.  Calling a dear friend made (still makes!) me sweaty.  When I started dating, if it was my turn to call I would make them promise to be at the phone at a specific time so I minimized my chances of sounding foolish to their families.  I had to know it was going to be them picking up and I was still clenching my hands and pacing nervously.

One of my senior pics.  Just casually lying in a tick field.  It is giving me hair envy, though.

I've never been particularly wealthy so my employment has always been very necessary, even if evil.  The Big A is on red alert every time a supervisor passes by.  They look upset.  Did I make a mistake?  I enjoy interviews, but once I have the job my anxiety creeps in.  I'm a hard worker.  I take extra shifts.  I stay late.  I work from home.  I learn quickly.  My reviews are all excellent.  I hardly ever call out sick and I am never late.  When I assume my boss is going to be unhappy with me it makes no sense.

It had to have started in high school, the move to stifle my emotions.  I became more keenly aware of all the ways I was too.  Too direct.  Too emotional.  Too outspoken.  There were good toos, but I wasn't interested in the ways I was already functioning well.  I've always tried to improve myself.  For some strange reason it has been the driving force just underneath the surface.

I'm certain that I was in the full throes of this experiment while in college.  I successfully subverted my feelings, only to begin a two-year battle with depression.  While there were certainly mitigating factors contributing to this bought--my grandfather, who raised be like a second father, died a horrible death from brain cancer for one--I don't think turning inward and building so many walls helped in any way.

This week, I cried at work.

I had been called to a floor where an emergency procedure was being conducted.  While the nurses were around, the wife seemed nervous, but had on a brave face.  Once he was wheeled back, I turned to her to ask if she wanted any water or coffee to drink.  She was crying.  I said something about how difficult it must be to wait and that the surgical team is really wonderful.  And then I cried.  Maybe it's not so unusual to cry with someone, but it is for me.  I felt her concern for their family.  I felt her sadness over things unsaid should he not wake up.  There it all was.

As I turned and gave her privacy, it occurred to me that my wall must finally be coming down.  Feelings can become overwhelming when you take on everything that surrounds you, but it's better than not feeling anything at all.  Worse, when you don't show your feelings you risk others thinking you don't care.  I'll not have that for my loved ones.

And he was fine, by the way.  I nodded to her when I heard him wake for the nurses, and we shared a huge smile when he was finally brought out to her.

I'm definitely healing.

And the anxiety?  That's always going to be there.  It's a genetic gift.  I've found a low dose of medication that works very well for me.  And of course there are exercise and yoga and good foods, but those were never enough to help me on their own.

I feel blessed.

I might even call someone sometime, just for kicks.

The accidental dog: life, love, and loss

The story of sweet Denali spans some of the most dynamic years of my life.  Through my early twenties and half of my thirties, an eyebrow piercing, one semi-customized bird tattoo, three apartments, two houses, three or four relationships (depending how you count those), a marriage, and two children, she was there.

I wasn't supposed to even have a dog.  My apartment was strictly "no pets" and I was still a bit of a nomad at that point so I was fine with it.  I never had pets as a kid, and if anything I wanted a cat, not a dog.  Dogs are too much work.  I was checking the adoptable pet listings to find a puppy for my boyfriend's mother's birthday.  I saw her listing and headed down.  I didn't know anything about adopting animals but I knew my boyfriend's mother would give her a phenomenal home.  They had a nice large house, a yard, and a friendly older dog for companionship.  It said that she had lived with dogs, cats, and young children, and was already housebroken which, to me, made her a better gift than a regular puppy which would mean his mother would be up all hours of the night potty-training.

I didn't feel too much guilt as my then-boyfriend's friend posed as our landlord on the telephone, saying dogs were okay.  There was less than a week until her birthday and the dog wasn't actually staying with us past then.  I knew it was the only way to keep the surprise.

I think it took two days for me to fall in love with her.  And one more day to locate a free puppy from an accidental litter, one state over.  The day of the party, we drove up to choose a puppy from that litter for his mother, and I was left with a dog I wasn't even allowed to have.  It made sense to my heart and back then, I always followed my heart.

Fortunately, by the grace of the universe, because I don't know how I'd have made it this far without said grace, the real landlord was forgiving and let her stay.  I now had a dog.  I had a dog I didn't want or plan for, but a dog I loved and sorely needed.

She was half Alaskan Malamute and half Golden Retriever so I changed her name from the feline-sounding Sadie, to Denali.  She loved to run away.  She would make her way to the train tracks and then just keep following them for as long as she could run--which was far.  Eventually I convinced my boyfriend that she wasn't the sort of dog that you could keep off-leash.

Then we broke up.

My next significant other was 90 percent less hippy.  He tolerated Denali but you better believe I heard about how much harder everything was with a dog.  (Thank goodness he didn't want children!)  It was hard to find an apartment--very true.  It was hard to stay out late on Friday and Saturday nights because someone had to head home to the dog.  I was quite willing to always be sober and drive home for her, but it became a constant source of conflict.  He accused me of putting a dog before a person.  Dirty pool.  Instead of leaving, I stayed and sent my beloved Denali to spend the weekend with my mother.  It became a week.  Then two years.  Yes, the same mother that never wanted dogs or cats.  She fell in love with Denali, too.

Denali came back to me when I met my husband.  Oh, how I had missed her!  I found the same dog that would comfort me as I cried tears of anguish or youthful confusion was even more wonderful to have around when times were good.  She gave us all sorts of humorous stories including the time this sneaky pup ate two full batches of double-chocolate cookies.  We tried to induce vomiting with hydrogen peroxide but she seemed completely unaffected by either dose.  She seemed to like it, actually.  One huge emergency vet bill later and she was released as completely fine.  She never tried to steal another cookie, though.

We moved her into our tiny apartment and brought her to the house we bought.  She loved to go hiking.  I still remember having her up to camp one weekend and watching her chase the sparks from the campfire.  She never got tired.

She was there for our first two children.  Our oldest son loved her so much that she was the theme of his first birthday party.  No, really.  Here is the cake my husband made for him:

They were great friends.

Shortly after our second child arrived, it became clear that Denali was failing.  She seemed to be having trouble seeing, she didn't want to do much more than sleep, and she wanted to be left alone most of the time.  She had accidents in the house and her whole personality was shifting.  Endless hours of research brought us to something akin to canine dementia.

Denali's timeline was drawing shorter.  I was going to have to make some heart-wrenching decisions.  The dog I was never supposed to have was going to leave us, leave me, and his time it was forever.

I knew what I was going to have to do, but first, I spoke to friends and family who had been through this sort of thing before.  The only question I still had was: How do you know when it is time?  And it turned out to be the only question no one could answer.  She was still eating and drinking.   I was unsure if she was in pain.  If she was, it wasn't obvious to me.  She had snapped at people.  What if she bit someone?  She didn't seem happy anymore but she was still functioning.  I was so confused.  I couldn't sleep.  I called the veterinarian's office.  I asked them the same question.  They told me, with the gentle certainty of experience: if you are calling us, then you know it is time.

Her last day was filled with soft treats, hamburgers, cheese, basically whatever she wanted.  She was so excited that my heart broke yet again.  It was one of her good days.  The days that make you doubt your decision.  Why hadn't we made all of her days this good?  In retrospect, I'm glad her last day was so good for her, but it didn't make it easy for me.

She rode all the way to the vet on my lap.  The biggest dogs always think they can fit in the smallest places.  I was pretty sure she knew.  We said goodbye, my husband, my mother, and I.  It was peaceful for her and she had almost all of her favorite people with her.  We stroked her fur and told her what a good girl she was, how she was the best dog in the whole world.  She really was.

My oldest son asked for her for weeks.  Nothing I could do would prevent the tears that would immediately well up in my eyes and nothing I said made any sense to him.  She simply disappeared from his life.

Time has softened the sting of it.  We have three children now and our oldest doesn't ask about her anymore.  We keep her old collar on top of the fridge.  Sometimes I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands.  When I think of her now it is with fondness and seldom tears.  But I'll be forever grateful for my accidental dog.