Life Facts According to Baymax.

For anyone still not in the know, Peter and I are dog owners.

I'm assuming most have figured out that I have anxiety, due to the title of this blog, so this isn't a surprise, but guys... I have anxiety. (whew, so good to get that off my chest!)  I am also a heavily medicated individual. Since 2010 I have been on Effexor with sometimes other pills being pulled into the mix. This summer I started having multiple daily panic attacks, and so when we got to Utah I met with a psychiatrist who added Gabapenton to the routine. Through our meetings he found out that I have always had nightmares, which recently had been triggering middle of the night panic attacks. Thus a new pill was added. Welbutrin was also added to balance out some bad side effects of the Effexor, and now I'm a pill guzzling junkie.

Before all these pills were added, my psychiatrist and I tried to decrease my Effexor to see if I would be able to function on a low dose. This experiment crashed and burned very hard. My racing thoughts, panic, deep depression, and compulsive hair pulling doubled, so we put me back to my original dose.

There is a purpose to all this, I swear, even though I am getting very distracted from the point of this post.

Peter and I are not trying for kids; we really can't right now. My high doses of multiple medications mean that any pregnancy would be very very dangerous for that foetus. We have decided we will start trying once we finish our Masters and I begin my PhD. Doing so means that I will need to be off my pills, and that means I will likely be a mess. I am terrified of doing this, but I want to be able to give Peter a child that he so desperately wants, and I know I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I chose to stay on meds that significantly hurt a baby.

Enter Baymax. 

I adore dogs. If you don't know this about me, you probably are a stranger that just somehow stumbled onto my blog. Through the help of my therapist, the university accessibilities office, and Wymount housing, I was approved to get a dog as an emotional support animal. Animals and tending for animals, has been linked with lessening depression, anxiety, and also PTSD, (although I do not have that). Our wonderful puppy Baymax, who we adopted last month, is stepping in to help me both with my current issues, and the ones that will arise when I go drug free. Peter says I already seem a lot better.

Wow, okay, so I did not intend to write any of that, but I figured I might as well explain things. Why not? I'm gonna be a therapist, and we're always encouraging people to own their mental health struggles. *Power fist!*

Life with a puppy has been wonderful. The dog we brought home from the store was timid and did not like us touching him, but now that Stockholm syndrome has fully taken affect, he is a happy and playful puppy. Every day Peter and I learn a new life fact according to Baymax, and in honour of his first bath, which he’s still mildly upset at us for, I present to you some of his top ones.

• Leaves are awesome. As many as can be collected should be chewed on and brought inside where they belong.

• Hair is equally as important as leaves, whether on the floor or on the head of a person, it is the same.

• People cannot know that you love them unless your tongue goes all the way up their nose holes. The farther up, the greater the love. Do not allow them to resist. 

• Humans must be tended while they use the bathroom. You may either sit and wait until they are done, or check in every 2 minutes. Either is sufficient.

• When you poop or piddle outside, you get a treat. To make sure the human knows you need your treat, maintain eye contact and lick your lips while you go. It isn’t creepy.

• Anything put in the food bowl must be avoided at all cost. Food is good when it is held by a human, but in the bowl it is useless. Only if you are close to starvation can you touch what is in the bowl.

• When you greet someone, you must touch their face. All faces should be touched frequently. (**Touching the face also helps them stop resisting the tongue in the nose.**)  

• If someone has an easy time using a thing, they will not appreciate it. Steal brushes, socks, curlers, papers and computer mice (while they are being used) and run around until they catch it. Now they will appreciate what they have.

• When someone is doing the dishes, help out by licking their ankles.

• No one can make you take a walk when you don't want one. Straining against the leash long enough will help you slip out of the harness and run home. They will respect your decisiveness.

• Deer poop is excellent for sniffing. Maybe even a tentative lick.

• All strangers want to pet you and they need to be able to. If you see a stranger on a walk, sit down until they are close enough to run to (with your paws up and ready for face touching). Even if the stranger is walking in the opposite direction sit and wait; they could come back.

• Vacuums are satan, but brooms are friends. Chase the broom whenever possible and scavenge the piles it makes for leaf bits and hair balls. Both are toys that should not be disposed of.

• If a toy has been purchased for your use, ignore it. The true toys are plastic bags, ball pit balls, soft hair curlers, toothbrushes, clothes, leaves, and hair. 

This is definitely not my best picture, but I love how Baymax looks like he's saying, "Who meeee?" in a Betty Boop-ish voice.
Work it, boy. 

Emotionz for dayzzz

I cried tonight. It was much needed. No, nothing happened; I finally got around to watching the film adaptation of John Green's The Fault in Our Stars. I was actually quite pleased that I bawled through about 50% of the film, as I read the book completely dry-eyed and it made me feel like a soulless monster. How can I be so cold as to not sob for the pains of fictional characters?!?!

I am of the belief that a good cry is necessary every once and a while. I don't feel like I cry particularly often, although I suppose in comparison to some people I'm sure I cry all the time. Recently, I've been feeling really stressed out and worried about a lot of things. When Peter asked me last week what it was I was worrying about (it sounds sarcastic when I type it, but he was genuinely asking to try and help) I started the text, "eh, nothing really" but then went on to list about 12 different things. Because I'm a moderately emotionally stable adult, I don't cry about each of those things every day, even when I'm obsessing about them. However, if you're stressing about a lot of things for a while, you start to get all emotionally constipated and you JUST NEED TO CRY. Right? It's like you've got this snot ball in your nose that is growing obscenely large and so you just gotta get one of those baby syringe things and suck that monster out before it suffocates you completely. I know you feel me. You're human. (Or.... PLEASE TELL ME THERE'S A CYBORG READING MY BLOG THAT WOULD BE SO COOL) In order to help snot-syringe my eMotTiunZ, I often have a list of things I can turn to that are infallible in being able to make me cry. They're tools of tears. Very handy to have.

1. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

About this time last year, when I was living with four other wonderful women, (oh seriously, those girls were the best), I was always the first one in bed. I had early work to get to, while they were still young and cool and in school. Consequently, there were often fun gatherings in our house late into the night. A fun fact about me is I am dependent on audiobooks to get me to fall asleep. I can delve into that alarming issue at a later date, but let it be known that I have no memory of ever going to bed without listening to an audiobook or radio drama. (This is, in fact, how I came to memorize the first three Harry Potter books as an 11 year old.) One particular night, I was tucked in bed and listening to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, specifically chapter 34 "The Forest Again," where Harry goes to face Voldemort. I have never read or listened to this chapter without crying, even though I have now done so probably close to 40 times. Because I was crying so hard, I had to leave my room to retrieve tissues. I walked past a gaggle of girls on the couch, who quietened as soon as they saw my face.

"Are, you... are you okay?" my roommate Christy asked.
"Yeah" I sighed deeply, mopping at my face, "Harry is just going to go meet Voldemort in the forest and he resurrected his parents. He is so brave."

This statement was met with a moment of complete and utter silence from my friends, before they all burst into hysterical laughter.

I understand that my response was not one the expected, but they laughed at TRUE PAIN. Oh, man. The line that gets me:

“Does it hurt?" The childish question had escaped Harry's lips before he could stop it.

"Dying? Not at all," said Sirius. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

AHHHHHHHH. Oh my gosh, this scene is just so wracked with emotion! First of all, this 17 year old boy has just realized that he is going to die. He is knowingly walking towards his death in order to save everyone he knows. In order to save the entire world. He calls back four of the most important people in his life, all of whom have died for the same cause. This line is what breaks my tear ducts, however, because it is childish. Harry is approaching something completely unknown, and his seeking for comfort by his parents and guardians, just crushes my little heart. YOU ARE SO BRAVE, HARRY POTTER. YOU ARE SO BRAVE.

2. Marley and Me (both movie and book)

I don't think that Marley and Me is a sad story. I actually think it's a wonderfully happy story and I get irked when people say it's depressing. If Marley and Me is depressing, then so is life! (which is a distinct possibility, I realize.) It's dedicated to celebrating the life of a horribly wonderful bad dog. There are so many moments in John Grogan's stories where I laugh aloud. Marley was a wonderful dog, who lived a long and loving life. If, after getting to know this beautiful dog, watching or read him die at old age in his master's arms, and buried in his favourite spot in the garden doesn't make you cry, then maybe you are a cyborg. It IS terribly sad, and it makes me sob every time, but it's also probably the best most wonderful way he could have gone. Why am I justifying this to you? I dunno, but anyway, it's flawless, and I cry and cry and cry.

Look, even reading through Marley and Me quotes on Goodreads is making me tear up again:

“A person can learn a lot from a dog, even a loopy one like ours. Marley taught me about living each day with unbridled exuberance and joy, about seizing the moment and following your heart. He taught me to appreciate the simple things-a walk in the woods, a fresh snowfall, a nap in a shaft of winter sunlight. And as he grew old and achy, he taught me about optimism in the face of adversity. Mostly, he taught me about friendship and selflessness and, above all else, unwavering loyalty.”

3. This Scrubs episode

Dr. Cox's brother in law has died of Lukemia, but we don't work that out until the very end of the episode ^ as seen here. Dr. Cox is one of those characters who doesn't allow himself to show emotion. Throughout the episode everyone is very somber while he still laughs and jokes with his brother in law, who we later realize isn't really there. I HAVE TO STOP TYPING BECAUSE MY HEART IS GOING TO CONCAVE ON ITSELF AND THAT'S NOT A MEDICALLY HEALTHY THING FOR IT TO DO. Anyway, you should watch it.

4. "I Died Today"

Okay, so writing this blog post just made me realize that I may have a problem with dealing with death? I dunno. Possibly. Maybe this should be something I discuss with my therapist. I'll let you know how that goes. Anyway, this story hits me the same way Marley and Me does. Read it. IF YOU DARE. I so far have never made it even half way through without blubbering.

http://www.robynarouty.com/i-died-today/

So, anyway, if you were looking for a way to get that emotional snot ball syringed, these are my go-tos

Good luck with your sob-fest, and remember! Crying is okay! However, if you have a crying spell that lasts longer than 2 hours, please contact your health care professional, or, more preferably, your closest friend.

Whew, now I really need something happy.

Trust issues

In 1996 I was 4. It was a pretty huge year for me. I moved to England, began my first year of school, made new friends, saw new places, and got my bedtime changed.
Previously, my bedtime had been a very strict 7:30pm. It was enforced by my older sister Sharah (who had clearly shown from an early age a great sort of defiance and bad behavior in order for her to receive such a terrible chore). However, as I was becoming a strong independent and grown 4 year old, my parents heeded to my prolonged, whiny pleas, and allowed me to stay up to a new and better bedtime of "half an hour to 8."
This new bedtime placated me for a good while, until I began to indignantly notice that I would be told, "bedtime! It's 7:30!" And then immediately after when I reminded them my bedtime had been changed, "uh, right, I mean, half an hour to 8! It's that. Now." You SNEAKY parents!

Consequently, from an early age, I was taught the value and success of manipulating young children, a talent which serves me well in my current employment. If this were a continued post about my marketability, you can guarantee it that "manipulating the blind" could be listed.

One large stumbling block for my client at work is his inability, or refusal, to eat regular food. Although he is nearing five, his parents still send baby food with him to school. Since I have begun working with him, his palate has expanded immensely, and he now eats chicken, fish, rice, fruit, bread, and other school lunch foods happily. However, this progress did not come immediately. I found early on that my client had a flat refusal to try any sort of new food, however, if that food found his way into his mouth, he would find that he liked it, and finish the dish. Such began the manipulation of a poor, defenseless blind boy. So many lunch times begin with my putting a new food behind a known food on a spoon, and offering the spoon handle to my client to hold, while my teacher looks on with fingers crossed. The spoon enters the mouth, we wait, he chews and pauses, we cringe, he continues to eat and motions for more. I get congratulated by the adults, and I wonder if this is some horrible form of betrayal. Sorry, buddy. We need you to eat!

Really, though, every form of relationship you have is some sort of manipulation. My sweet little puppy was easily manipulated from the beginning. The first trick we ever tried to teach her was a simple "sit." Sasha learned that if she were to sit upon command, she was immediately awarded with a delicious treat, and wonderful, kind praise. Unfortunately, she still hadn't learned to respond to any other sort of request. Therefore, my parents and I often found ourselves at the bottom of our townhouse's stairs, leash in hand, screaming for Sasha to come. At first we wondered if the poor puppy had some problems with her hearing, or if the house was just muffling our calls to her. Then father found a way.
One day as I stood in our foyer screaming for my puppy, dad came over and said, "watch this."
"Sasha!" He yelled up the stairs, just as I had done. Then, "Sashaaaaaaaa, sit!" We stood in silence for a moment before hearing a rapid "boom boom boom boom, click click click, thump thump thump" as Sasha jumped and ran from wherever she was hiding above us, skid down the stairs, and sat beautifully still right at my father's feet, tail wagging rapidly.

Of course, this is also, I think, how I have such a wonderful, serving husband. I have conditioned him into knowing that he will receive love, kisses, and praise when he feeds and loves me. I recommend you do likewise.

Moral of the story? Children, puppies, and husbands are essentially all the same.

Hitchhikers and my deep deep driver's guilt

The first time I hitchhiked I was 17 years old. I was living in Russia and taking part of the social function of Gypsy Cabbing, which is a unofficial system that effectively allows any driver who picks up a hitchhiker to charge them fare for their ride. As I am terribly unskilled in the language of Russian, the only times I gypsy cabbed was with friends, but it was never something that seemed scary or unsafe to me.

After moving to Hawaii I continued to hitchhike when the need arose. I find it a useful mode of transportation, albeit a difficult one at times. I've never felt as though I was at danger, and I am grateful to the people who are willing to stop and pick hikers up; many have helped me get out of transportation tight-spots.

Once you have stood and sweated while you hitchhike on the side of the road, you start to notice hikers when you are in the comfort of your car. As I drive roughly 80 miles a day M/W/Th/F, I find myself passing those with their thumbs out regularly. If I am on my way home from a job and it is day time, I will pick up hikers that I pass, but out of respect for my husband, my parents, and employers, all of whom would lecture me angrily for hours if I did so, I do not pick up men while alone in my car, and I do not pick up anyone at night. These rules cause painful inner monologues of guilt on almost a daily basis while I pass by, and usually I have to actively fight the decision to do a U turn to go back and get the person in need.

One day of recent past while I drove to school, I saw a lone figure standing on the side of the highway, arm outstretched. I had, just weeks before, hiked from that same spot when my car failed me one weekday morning, so I felt instant empathy and compassion for this stranger. As I came closer it began to rain, and my need to pull over and offer a ride became almost impossible to fight, however, I could see clearly this was a male hiker, and thus I knew I could not stop. He had a bundle at his feet, I assumed a backpack, and soon I was passing him, feeling such sadness for this stranger in the rain on the highway. Then I saw his backpack was actually A PUPPY and it was the saddest thing ever

No one who has a puppy could be an evil man! I thought to myself. He's in trouble and needs a lift! I should go back and get him. 
No. I can't. I don't pick up men. 
Now, Melece, the feminist part of my brain spoke up, that doesn't seem fair. That man cannot help that he has both X AND Y chromosomes. Are you going to deny him a simple neighbourly service simply because he was born with more testosterone than you? 
But he could attack me. People would definitely blame me for my own death. The headline would read, "GIRL WITH SEEMINGLY LOW IQ IS MURDERED BY KNOWN AX-MURDERER HITCHHIKER. DEFINITELY HER BAD." Plus, they'd have an awkward picture of me all over the news, and everything good I ever achieved in life would be forgotten and I would be forever the awkward looking girl who invited her murderer into her car.  
Women are murderers too, you know. 
Melece, I KNOW women are murderers too. I'm not stoopid. 
So maybe you should just stop picking up hitchhikers, then, you big fat sexist. 
I don't even pick up hitchhikers that often! I'm not stopping. When I do pick someone up I am helping them. I am SUCH a good person. 
Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, you dummy misandrist. 
You know what? Fine. I'm going to pick up that man and his puppy! 

But then, of course, I had pulled into work by the time this discussion was finished and the man was probably picked up by someone who isn't afraid of men and who loves puppy cuddles.

Peter does confirm that he would scold me if I were to pick up a man, so really what I am being is a good wife and my husband is the one who is sexist and anti-man. Thanks for helping my cognitive dissonance, Peege. You're the best.

Sniff sniff, nuzzle nuzzle, lick lick.

Recently, there have been a lot of births in our building. Actually, there have been no births in the building; I checked the TVA handbook and home births aren't allowed, but, as it happens, when there are births in hospitals, babies return home with the parents, thus there are a lot of babies in our building. A lot of screaming babies in our building.

Somewhere in my DNA as a woman, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to have a "babies are so great and I want to squeeze them out of my uterus and into the world" strand, but somewhere that strand got destroyed and replaced with something else. This something else is my love of dogs. 

As shocking as this may seem to some infant enthusiasts, I am of the personal belief that dogs are just better to have around than babies. For example, if you Google the term, "dog saves baby" you will find dozens, if not hundreds, of reports of dogs acting heroically to save their humans' spawn. If you Google the term, "baby saves dog" you will find no results, which really goes to show which the superior investment for a pet is.  

New babies drool and poop and scream and don't ever sleep. Puppies, on the other hand, sleep ALL the time, are poop and pee trained within months, and are desperate to please you, thus will not cry once you yell at them often enough not to. You also get the amazing plus of a puppy wanting to serve you as alpha pretty much immediately, while a baby thinks it is alpha until it's like 20 years old. Source: I was a baby, and had a terrible alpha complex for years. If a puppy cries, and it really bugs you, you can put a muzzle on them! If a baby cries and it really bugs your neighbours who dislike children you, you can't muzzle them without having to pay for therapy, which is ridiculously expensive. 

Recently, I've been finding my anxiety spiking ridiculous amounts. As it turns out, being an adult is a lot of work, and a lot of times it feels that all the work you've been putting in is being paid back in results at 50%. This is hard enough as it is, without the addition of my severe pining for my dog, and resentment for all my neighbours with babies, because somehow I feel their spawn is more destructive to the area than a dog. 

Postpartum depression is a serious condition. Depression is a condition which can be treated by puppies! Fix all the problems in the world! Legalize dogs in apartments! 

Okay, this is a dumb blog post. Blame my puppy pining.