Mental Health Struggles- Fighting Myself

 If you're reading this, you probably already know that I am mentally ill. Schizoaffective Disorder and OCD. But if you're reading this and you don't know, click here to read about it.

A quick summary would be, I've been hallucinating for just about as long as I remember. Delusions raged and the hallucinations became real for a long time. Slight mania wove itself through these years, before sinking, deep deep deep into suicidal depression. On April 20th, 2004, I took a kitchen knife and tried to kill myself. 

And that started the meds. Meds to bring me up, bring me down, meds to stop the hallucinations. Some of them were good drugs. Some were shitty. I did finally broke out of that depression! Then I faced years of out-of-control mania. But I still fought with hallucinations. They weren't all-consuming like they were when I was younger. Just troublesome. Whispers and visions and hearing TVs on when they were off, and feeling phantom hands touching me. They no longer spoke to me, telling me what to do. They just played with me.

So I started this med called Zyprexa, which has pretty thoroughly wiped out my hallucinations. Unfortunately my psychiatrist calls it "The Fat Pill." Pill side effects are nothing  new to me. Lithium caused cystic acne that scarred and pitted my face. It also damaged my thyroid. But Zyprexa caused weight gain and makes me sleep like the dead, fighting sleep HOURS after I finally wake up. It just brings me down in every sense. And I'd be lying if I didn't tell you... I miss alcohol!! It's a big no-no on Zyprexa.

My family has thought for a long time that I'm overmedicated; that these meds, ESPECIALLY Zyprexa has turned me into a walking corpse. And I hate that. I feel trapped by it, a huge weight settled on my chest. Just so stifled.

So on December 7th, I have a phone meeting with my psychiatrist and I'm gonna tell her.. I want OFF Zyprexa. I understand it will probably happen slowly, over months, but I'm done.

I also understand some--or more-- of the hallucinations will come back. But I have to be brave. My hallucinations can't hurt me, and these are usually pretty harmless anyway. So what if I see things in my peripheral vision or hear music that's not really playing. I think it will be worth it to live freer, not held down. 

It may sound silly but this is a big move for me. 

I'm a little scared. But I know it's right for me. And I have SO MUCH support. 

I can do this.

Sarah

A Quick Thought

 When I was younger, sometimes I felt much older than most kids my age. Mostly because I had already dealt with some pretty heavy shit... like hallucinations and depression and a suicide attempt all by age 12. My classmates seemed cheerful and carefree and I couldn't always relate.

Now, I often feel much younger than people my age. Especially because I have to live with my dad because my mental health makes it impossible to live healthily on my own. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't have anything to do with romantic relationships. So many people I went to school with and grew up with are married and/or have children or at least committed relationships. And here I am... just a big kid.

I'm not pretty. I'm just not. People will rush to correct me because they're nice and they care. But I'm not blind.. I know what I look like. I DO like my crazy hair and tattoos. But my nose is big and my skin is pitted. I'm overweight and... awkward. 

There are definitely guys I like! I'm so immature just talking to guys is kind of exciting. But looking at myself through their eyes, I'm just... odd. 

But all things considered, I'm doing pretty well! I'm healthy and I'm happy... just weird.

;)

Sarah

At... THE DENTIST

So about 6 months ago, I had a dental appointment.. a cleaning! And then... COVID-19 happened, and everything went to hell. I didn't mind. For no real reason, I hate the dentist. Then, last week, they called me up! Out of the blue.

"May I speak to Sarah please?"
"Speaking," I said, hesitantly.

"Hi!" a cheerful voice chirped. "Would you like to reschedule a cleaning appointment?"

I gritted my teeth. I wanted no such thing. But. "Yes, please."

So, just under a week later, I found myself outside the dental office. As I always do, I had scrubbed my teeth beforehand, SERIOUSLY scrubbed. Then I used a disposable dental pick. Then I swished Listerine. Then, right before I went in, like the weasel I am, I took out my tongue ring. I have been severely chastised over it before so now I just take it out beforehand. 

Compared to before, the waiting room was sparse and barely furnished, no chair within 6 feet of another. There was a heavy, clear plastic curtain hanging over reception. I perched on the edge of a plastic chair, wringing my hands. 

"You can come back now," said a short woman I didn't recognize. Her eyes followed my through the doorway, examining me. I'm used to this scrutiny. Not everyone likes my appearance. But she was looking at me for a different reason.

"I think you went to school with one of my kids," she said. She rattled off a few names and one was familiar. I said so. "Oh, she's on drugs now," she said, like she was telling me the afternoon's weather forecast.

I followed her down a short hallway and into a patient room. She directed me to a sink in the corner and handed me a paper cup filled with mouthwash. "Swish for a minute, then spit," she instructed. "Yeah, my daughter's on a lotta drugs now." So casual. "She has a couple kids, too. I have them now." I nodded, swishing obediently. What am I supposed to say?

"Mmmhmm," I said nasally, mouthwash threatening to bubble up my nose, so I said nothing further. 

"Spit." I did. 

"Are you on any medications?"

Son of a bitch!

"Yeahhhhhhh," I exhaled. I am on a shit-ton of medication. Under duress, I can name the medicines, but as for dosages? Pshhh. No way, man. 

She noticed my hesitance. "Maybe write them all down and bring them in to us?"

I jumped on the suggestion like a life raft. "Yes! Yes, I will." 

I haven't just yet.

I got some x-rays taken. I was relieved that I didn't have to remove my ear jewelry because that would be a lot of effort. 

A hygienist came in, scraped my teeth a little, then polished them. I recognized him as one of the tongue-stud-haters and was glad he said nothing about the hole in my tongue. 

Finally, The Dentist came in. I always find it interesting because he doesn't do much. He takes a single tooth scraper and kind of taps my individual teeth with it. 

"Your toothies look good," he murmured. "Tongue is pink and squishy." And pierced.

"All together, very boring," he concluded. "See you in 6 months!"

The candid nurse came swishing in and gave me my free toothbrush and appointment card for next time. On it, she had scrawled, "Bring list of medications."

I gathered up my belongings and turned to face her. "Um..." I didn't know what to say. "I hope your daughter gets better."

"Thank you," and she ushered me out the door. Out in the car I replaced my bright green tongue ring. 

FREE FOR SIX MONTHS!!!

Sarah

 

I'm Back! Going Way Back!

 Hey, guys! If I could have anything on earth, it would be a career as a successful writer. That, or a hair dye that is both unnatural in color and ACTUALLY permanent. Or a Firebolt, from Harry Potter. But I digress. I have several book ideas that I frequent between, but I just need more practice. Exercise, if you will. Years and years ago, I had a little following on my Myspace blog and then, a few people here on Blogger. I hope to pick these followers back up, and maybe get a few more. But first I've gotta win you all over. I like being funny and I really like telling my honest story. So a balance between those two is key. I HOPE you keep reading, because it's worth it. I know it is.

Some of my first and most powerful memories are memories of hurting myself. Not like falling off a bike and skinning my knees, but intentional self-punishment, Self harm. And I'm not talking older me, although I would, years later, go on to attempt suicide with a kitchen knife. No, I was a biter. That sounds sort of silly, doesn't it? But I would get so mad and upset with myself or a situation and the only relief was savagely biting my arm to the point of bruising. My little teeth would leave indents in my forearm. My parents noticed, concerned, and my mom actually bought me a few dog toys to bite INSTEAD OF my own skin. I had a beautiful green rubber bone, and a squeaky plastic chicken leg! They weren't flavored, just rubber. Those worked okay, except our Labrador, Holly, found them and claimed them. 

When no one was around, I also had a tendency to curl my hand into a fist and slam it into the side of my skull repeatedly. It just felt...good. Relief.  

When I was younger-- oh, please, who am I kidding?? ---NOW I am a rather shy person. Around people I know and trust, I can be quite silly and playful but people who don't know me think I'm a mute or something. But anyway, growing up, I struggled with this overwhelming fright of talking to people, and sometimes I would fight tooth and nail to avoid these situations. 

Another of my earliest memories is fighting with my mom over my socks. She would be trying to help me put on my shoes, but as she slid the light up sneakers onto my feet I would throw an absolute FIT. 
"My SOCKS are wrinkled!" I would wail. So my mom would pull the shoe off and smooth the sock as completely as humanly possible, then would put the shoe back on. 
My heartrate would spike, and I could feel the snake-like sensations of sock wrinkles bunching up and I would start to panic.
"WRINKLES!" I would cry.
"Sarah, there aren't any--"
"Wrinkles, there are wrinkles!" I would sob, and I would hate it. 

I will tell you know, I, at 28 years old, have for many years now been diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder and OCD, and I see little bits of that in the little Sarah I'm talking about. 

I think I was about four when I first hallucinated. It was the middle of the night and I awoke from a dream about a huge man with huge yellow eyes chasing me. When I woke, I looked at the door way... and he was standing there. His eyes glowed neon and he stared at me unblinkingly. I squeezed my eyes shut, shuddering, then looked back. He was gone.

I was able to hide SOME of these occurrences, and, apart from generalized anxiety over just about EVERYHING, my family wasn't aware of my mental health issues. I mean, I was always a little odd! And kids in school were wary of me sometimes because I was asthmatic and had allergies and had to use inhalers frequently. This is totally just me bragging, but I was on Claritin and Zyrtek, when they were prescription... WAY before they were OTC.

I'll tell you one thing, though. I got one kick-ass family! Very very supportive and loving... EXCEPT!

Let me tell you the tale of the day  I ran away from home.

I was about 5 or 6 at the time, a million years ago, and we had just gotten a wonderful rain shower, which, looking back, is a big deal in itself. But after the rain quit, the air smelled fresh and wet and made you take those deep breaths that make you feel like your lungs are growing. My mom, and my sister Emmy (would have been 8 or 9 at the time) and myself, well we took a walk. I got to wear.. my galoshes!

Let me just take a minute and give the boots their due credit. They were big and red and shiny and squeaky and just plain delightful. When I walked in them, they made these amazing squeaks and whines and the soles made suctiony noises on tile. 

During our walk out in the misty air, there were these terrific puddles EVERYWHERE, just waiting to be disrupted. I would run and run and then HOP up and into the muddy water, The mud squished around my feet and sucked at the shoes when I tried to pull the boot out. 

"Help me, Mama!" I would whine. She rescued me and yanked me and the Red Rubber Wonders out of the puddle I was inhabiting. The guck made a final slurp as my boots pulled free.

Delighted, I did it again. "Mama, I'm STUCK!!" I wheedled. With a sigh, she once again freed me. The muddy squelchiness gave an unhappy gulp as, once again, I was saved. 

After the 5th time, she told me, "Do that again, you're on your own...."

PSHH!! My head kind of twitched with disbelief. The nerve! So next monstrous puddle I found I landed in it, water gushing up over the top of the boots. I cackled! Then... I couldn't get out.

"Mama!" I screeched. "I'm stuck!!"  Mom looked at my sister (who had also been rescuing me frequently) and they smiled at each other. 
"You're on your own, sorry!" And they took off WITHOUT ME! Headed home.

I seethed, seeing red. My mouth fell agape.  How... how... how dare they act like that! I could see I had done NOTHING wrong! I stuck out my bottom lip in an absurd pout. I couldn't believe how unfairly I was being treated! Just awful. I felt very, VERY sorry for my poor self. But then!

I had a thought. I didn't want to go home! Not where my mom and sister were being unreasonably cruel!

I was about a three minute walk to my Grama's house! I knew I was always welcome at Grama's.

I had to pull my feet out of the galoshes in order to get a good enough grip to pull them out of the mud. My bare feet sunk in the water and slime squished between my toes. With a great lurch I freed the boots. With as much dignity as I could muster, I turned my little nose up in the air and marched to Grama's. 

Gram, I knew, would care about me. She would treat me right. Gram, I knew, would love me. 

The problem? Gram, I saw, was not home. So I had no choice but to turn around and begrudgingly squelch on home. About halfway there, I ran into... Mom and Emmy! Well, well, well. Guess who deigned to find me. Peasants. 

But Mom let me sit on the kitchen counter while we washed my muddy feet in the sink, and gave me a huge glass of milk to drink-- I  needed a double!--  and suddenly  everything wasn't so bad. 

The moral of this story? Oh, there isn't one. Except.. I think we are all brats sometimes. 

If you read this whole thing, THANK YOU!! Please keep coming back! Every Thursday. 

Thanks, Sarah

Sounds of Nature

Years ago, I tried to label my jobs at Records' ACE Hardware here in Raton. I came up with "Mowing Queen" (I 'got' to mow the back lot in the summer) and "Inventory Specialist" (I counted items and corrected the inventory in the computer). Yes, it was every bit as exciting as it sounds.

Years later, I now can claim "cashier" and "Green House employee" and, well, "Inventory Specialist." But one of my biggest jobs now is doing books in the back office. I really like working back there! It's warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It's hushed and crowded with shelving units and computers and printers and files, files, files! The overhead fluorescent lighting provides a constant, soothing hum.

My computer and station is at the back end of the room, in a corner. I won't bore you with what I do, but suffice it to say it's a lot of counting. My high school age, math-hating self  kind of does a ugly laugh/cry when I realize I'm making my living by doing... math.

But I have to say, the most interesting aspect of my job back there is the fact that I share a wall with the ladies' restroom and the wall is thin... very thin. Comically, weirdly thin. One day I went to work sick, ran to the bathroom to puke my guts up, and returned to the office where I was told flatly, "You're sick. You've been hurling in the bathroom. We heard you. Go home."

I have compiled a short list of things heard-- OVER HEARD- in the ACE ladies' restroom.

• Grunts, groans, plops, and tinkling. This one is obvious and to be expected! Still, it's kind of an intimate thing, and when they're really trying hard you have to fight the urge to knock on the wall and yell, "FIBER!!"
  
• Woofing and howling. We allow dogs of all sizes in the store, as long as they're well behaved. And I guess if you bring your dog in with you, they go in the restroom with you, should that situation arise. It was just weird because there was this dog in the bathroom just CRYING and YIPPING and making a scene, and whoever the owner was, they kept oddly quiet. There were no hushes or calming, soothing words. Just a toilet flush and they were gone.
  
• "YOU PROMISED!!" This one was interesting. From my eavesdropping, I deduced that there was a mother and 6-ish-age daughter in the bathroom together. It would appear the kid was sitting on the toilet with unfavorable results. The mother hissed, "You promised! You. Promised" to which the kid started sobbing, "No, Mommy, YOU PROMISED, YOU did!" Glad to stay out of that one.
  
• Slamming door. This happens quite frequently, but you can get a good idea of the hurry they are in by the slam of the door. When you gotta go, you gotta go, door locks be damned!
  
• "Please, God, please." This one caught my attention right away because it was undeniably a man's voice and he was WORKING. Frustrated grunts and mini, pained yelps. But throughout it all he kept praying to God. I hope it helped.
  
• Tongues. Probably the weirdest overhearing-experience was ANOTHER man. There were no tell-tale sounds of plumbing like toilet flushing or sinks being turned on. He just hung out in the bathroom and chanted. It was absolutely unlike anything I'd heard before. Not English, Spanish, French, Russian, Mandarin, Pig Latin! It was harsh and guttural and had kind of a musical quality to it. He was just... speaking in tongues. And then he peed. 

Sorry for the bathroom humor!

I'm really getting back into writing projects and I think blogs are like exercise for my mind. You may see more of them!

Sarah

A Rusty Poem

Every so often I get in the bizarre mood to write a poem. It doesn't happen often, and when it does the results are mostly 50/50.

But I got in that mood tonight and I thought I'd write a poem about NEW YEARS!


Outside, it's winter, cold and snowy.
The wind is biting, chilling and blowy.
Christmas is over, but holiday cheer
Stays for a week, for a happy new year.
Now here's our chance, for all of us to say,
Our choice for a change, starting New Year''s Day.
Maybe it's your weight, an unhealthy diet,
Knowledge of exercise but unwillingness to try it.
Perhaps it's your job, a jail-like sensation,
A need to transition to a new occupation.
It could be a relationship, shredded on the floor,
Worth working, worth pushing, worth fighting hard for.
It could be as simple as choosing a new hair color,
Or using self-tanner for a darker skin pallor.
Maybe you just want to rid yourself of a bad habit,
Or the need to find a new house to inhabit!
It might be time to find a new city,
Or become a strong person needing no pity.
Maybe it's time to adopt a new friend,
A fuzzy creature who's with you til the end.
It's probably time to clean a bit better,
A tidying schedule to follow to the letter.
A well-rounded person must know how to cook,
But personally I end up with my nose in a book.
Most of us really just want to be happy,
To catch a daily afternoon nappy.
Saving money is easier said than done,
A hard choice that is necessary for some.
Quitting smoking is a hard but good choice,
As is learning to speak up with your voice.
The world is scary, and it can be hard to live,
But we can if we stay strong, help each other, and give.
Finding religion is key for some people,
Finding home in the church's tall bell steeple.
For others, like me, we find true life's solace
In family's embrace, the best people among us.
I myself want to become a famous writer,
To use words as my weapons, become a true fighter.
I think most of us just want to be our best selves,
To use New Years as a platform to better ourselves.
So outside the wind howls, I'm glad to be in,
Ready to start this new decade off with a grin.
Remember, you're beautiful, inside and out.
Loving yourself is what it's really about.

HAPPY NEW YEARS GUYS!!

Sarah

When I Miss Otis

4 weeks and 1 day ago, I lost my furry best friend, Otis. She was fourteen years old and had bone cancer and a pretty shattered upper leg. She couldn't handle stairs at all, so I had to carry her up and down stairs any time she needed to go out, and I had to lift her up on the bed every night to go to sleep. I didn't mind, of course, it just broke my heart a little every time. She was on pain killers but she was still in pain. One night I gently laid my head on her side, like I had a million times before. She cried out in pain. CRACK went my heart. 

She hadn't been doing well for quite a while, but the night before, somehow, I knew. I laid on the floor with her and stroked her silky soft ears. I ran my fingers up and down her beautiful nose, and trailed my hand up and down her side. I told her how beautiful she was, and smart, and wonderful, and brave and true. My heart crackled and felt burning hot.

The first time I saw Otis, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. All these years later, I realize I was right. After a horrible day of 6th grade, I wasn't doing well. At all. I had recently attempted suicide by slitting my wrist and the whole school knew. And we all know how sweet midschool-aged kids are. They called me "freak," and asked if they could see the wound, and asked me if I had my razor blade with me. They pointed and laughed and stared. 

So when I climbed in my mom's car after school, to say I was doing poorly is a massive understatement. I shoved my backpack on the floor of the car and hopped in. My mom looked at me. 

"You know," she said, "Mr. Wingo came in the office today. He said he heard there was a week-old puppy at the animal hospital." Her eyes traveled over my face. "You wanna go see it?"

At the animal hospital, we inquired at the front desk. Stephanie Jansen smiled and opened the door that separates the waiting room from the rest of the building. She led us to a room off to the side that was mostly empty, besides a table and chair and some cabinets. And one brown cardboard box. I walked over to the box, drawn to it. Inside were several small blankets and towels, and one fuzzy brown potato. Stephanie gently reached into the box and took out that gorgeous potato and handed her to me. I felt her heartbeat in my fingertips and felt her nuzzle up against me. She whimpered quietly. For the first time in months, maybe years, my heart burned red hot and felt complete. Stephanie and my mom talked for a while, but I don't know what about. I wasn't listening.

We got a lot of instructions about taking care of the potato- she was young enough she needed the be bottle fed every few hours. Someone had dumped the newborn potato and her siblings off in the chilly night and this pup was the only one to survive. 

On the way home, I sat in the back seat with the cardboard box in my lap. The pup was sleeping and I marveled at how perfect she was. 

"What are you gonna name her?" my Mom asked.

I was quiet, thinking.

"You know what name I've always liked?" my sister asked from the front seat, "Otis."

"Otis," I repeated quietly. I gently reached in and touched her puppy nose. "Otis."

I got to be quite the bottle feeding expert! Once or twice we ran out of puppy formula so we had to use human baby formula, which, I feel, helped add to her wit and sophistication.

She was small enough we took her with us when we traveled. In the car, when she got hot, she would cry out, pouting, and one of us would hold her up in front of the air conditioning vent, where she would stay, smug.

And this whole time, I was HEALING. She gave me a reason to live. To leave behind the shackles of suicidal depression. She showed me how to fight and kick and scream and never, ever give up.

She developed SO MUCH personality and attitude! Here is a poem my Mom wrote about Otis as a puppy/young dog. I love it so much!

"Ode to Otis"

by Maggie Linsky

 

Otis, dog of dubious breed,

Went to the barn with me to feed.

When a neighbor driving by,

Stopped to say a friendly "Hi!"

All you could see was Otis' snout,

Cowering behind me, peeking out.

Our neighbor shouted, "How do you do?"

Ois promptly peed on my shoe.

Later, this little fraidy cat,

Chased and treed my old barn cat;

Woofed at the horse as he was fed...

Got herself locked in the hay shed.

When we got back home to the house,

We played a game of cat and mouse,

'Til with a cheerful "bon voyage",

I stuffed my problem in the garage.

I heard the old dogs growl and snap,

As Otis ran amok, madcap.

I listened to her howl awhile,

Opened the door, and in "free style",

She roared through, out of control;

Pounced and spilled the water bowl.

She nabbed and mauled my magpie bird,

And then she puked up riped deer turds.

We mopped it up, and unoccupied,

Another victim she quickly spied:

Emmy doing knee exercise.

Otis attacked in stealthy surprise.

Grabbed her by the pony-tail;

Made poor Emmy squawk and wail!

I, with a severe and grumpy face,

Dragged Otis to her least favorite place.

Causing mayhem she is unable,

with "Mr. Leash", tied to the table.

Otis LOVED walks, and took me any time I needed one. She quickly got plenty of admirers, including my Grandpa. On weekends, all of our dogs would run around and get to ride in the gator and since they were all so much bigger than Otis at the time, my Gramp took an empty butter tub, found a strap, and made Otis wear the "helmet" every time they went out.

This is immature humor, but several times in her life, Otie would be lying on the floor and develop gas. She would fart, loudly, and look at her butt like she was confused and horrified about what just happened. Anyone in the room would be in stitches laughing.

When my parents split up, Otis went where I went, my constant rock. When my mental illness spiraled out of control, she was my anchor in a sea of scary hallucinations and terrible mood swings.

But, like me, Otis grew older. She developed arthritis and a thyroid problem. She could no longer hop in and out of a car. But that playful, fighting spirit stayed. She still loved walks. They just hurt sometimes. 

Then one morning, she hopped off our bed and yelped in pain. I watched for a day or two as she did not get better and could put no weight on her leg. We took her to the vet's and they gave more pain pills, and I started to carry her up and down the stairs. But the vet made a point of saying it might be time.

I rejected the idea, in a sea of tears. So she did okay for a week or so. But then she hurt her leg/shoulder even more and was in more pain.

So there I was, lying on the floor with her, stroking her nose and ears and telling her how amazing she is.

The next day, it was simply time. I couldn't watch her suffer anymore. So we made an appointment to put her down at 4:30. I took off early and went home. I took Otis and Mose out for a drive and a cheeseburger. I sat on the floor and tried not to sob. 

At about 4 I took Otis out in front of my house and we sat on the weeds. She was so calm, and ready. My dad picked us up. At the animal hospital, we drove around back and got Otis out of the truck. There was a green patch of grass and we sat on it. My dad and sister were there too, and were in and out of the building, getting everything in order. But I didn't pay attention. I just sat on the grass with her.

"Good dog," I told her. "Good dog."

The vet came out with the syringe but didn't hurry me in the slightest. I knew it was time, so I told Otis the things she had to know.

"Thank you for saving my life," I told her, crying. "When you wake up, Grandpa will be there and he will take care of you til I get there. It's wonderful, where you're going. There are tennis balls and chew sticks and walks and squeak toys. I love you so much, more than you will ever be able to know."

I nodded, and the vet gave her the injection. I watched as she gently, easily drifted away. The vet put the stethoscope to her chest. "She's gone," she told me kindly. So everyone got up and moved away to give Otis and me some space. I lay down in the grass and dirt and curled up around her body like we used to do at night. I stroked her fur and touched her still-perfect nose.

"Otis," I said. "Good dog, Otis."

We buried her at my dad's house, and I go to her grave every day and talk to her. 

But I miss her so goddamn much! I miss her when:

-I look at Mose by himself

-I see her food and water bowls

-I find tufts of her fur on my clothes and sheets

-When I feed my animals

-When I go outside at night and look at the sky

-When the flower-spinner we put on her grave blows in the wind

-When I see pictures of her

-When I eat and remember her begging

-When I walk

-When I sleep by myself

-That time just before sleep, where you are in the divide between sleep and wakefulness

-Every time I go to the animal hospital/vet, the place I met her and lost her

-When I'm at my house

-When I breathe in

-When I breathe out

The only time I don't miss her is when I don't breathe and hold my breath. That suffocating feeling is horrible but it expands and pushes out every other feeling. I only feel my heart beating in stifling, dull grayness. 

There is such a void in me that can't be filled with anything. Just a raw, gaping hole in my soul. 

But you know that saying, "It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all," and it's true. I hurt, but I wouldn't give my memories of her up for anything. And, most importantly, if I didn't have Otis I wouldn't be here. Simple. 

Otis taught me a lot of things, and I kind of have a life motto inspired by her: What Would Otis Do? Otis would love life and laughter and would be strong and kind and not be embarrassed too badly when she got scared and peed. 

This is a recreation photo, one of the first pictures I have with her and one of the last:

I am SO GRATEFUL for my family. My dad and sister see me everyday and talk me down/up when I'm really sad. My mom calls me every few days and misses Otis too! All of my family have cats and dogs and understand how hard it is losing them. But, and I don't want to sound too stuck up, I think we all acknowledge my bond with Otis was something different... something special. Maybe we all think that about our pets.

I got a tattoo of her name above my tattoo of her paw print. Seeing them calms me.

There is no cure for missing someone. I know as time goes on it will get easier, but for now, I just ache. 

Here is a link to a bunch of pictures of the two of us.

Two separate people made donations to the Humane Society in Otis' name, which is incredible. Thank you.

I'm not at all a religious person, but I like the idea that Otis is with my Grandpa and all the dogs and cats we've lost, and that I will see her again someday.

I love you, Otis. Forever.

Sarah