Over university winter break, I went home to visit my parents for the first time in 2 years. My parents and I do not have a good relationship and it is expensive to go out there, but I wanted to give them the opportunity to see me at least-and, well. I also really wanted to see my dog.
He was a Christmas present. Very lucky girl, very fortunate we could afford to give him a home (he ended up being expensive too-almost died a year in because a vein didn't pass through his liver. Had to be driven to next town for surgery).
His mannerisms, his emotions & tell-tale barks-I knew it all. I could read him like a book and watching him just made my heart swell.
The day I left for college, the day my mother wouldn't look at me, I acknowledged the probable idea "this will be the last time I will see him." He was 9 years old, but aging fast for a pug. Through the course of my freshman year, my mother would speak on the phone in a dejected voice, stating that he was getting old, fast. Faster than our other two pugs who couldn't go on peacefully past 15. I assumed he would die while I was away from home, and grew accustomed to this idea. At first, I missed him everyday (I didn't think I would beone of thosepeople, but it happened). After I got a job and started my internship and got into the swing of classes and weekend parties-I thought of him less and less-but he was always in my heart.
I was excited to see him last December. I visited my parents on Christmas Eve and stayed for about 6 days. He was old and had trouble getting around, but he still had life in him. Though slow and sluggish, he seemed happy enough-and I'm sure he was.
He died on January 13th. My mother took it pretty hard, I hear.
He wasn't feeling so well on the 11th, parents thought it would pass over-that's what they feel the worst about. They let him try to sleep it off for a night. When he got worse, they took him to the vet. He could hardly breathe, had fluid in his lungs, and the veterinariansdidn't know what was wrong. My dad called on the 12th to tell me that the boy wasn't doing so well. He called me again, during my morning shower on the 13th, and I missed it, so I got the news on my way to class.
But I was expecting it.
I think that's the worst part, the part that half of me feels very guilty about (the other half is rational, mind you). Instead of having a huge burst of sadness right at his death-it was as if I had been spreading it out as little waves of sorrow for the past two years. I was prepared for this. I knew it was coming. And how horriblyromanticit is that he passed away less than a month that I visited him. He really was a good dog.
He really was a good dog.
A depression episode started to kick right before the semester started (before the 13th). I could feel it creeping its way inside my heart and mind. I have an important position in my internship thatcan notbe jeopordized by depression-especially right now for recruitment, at the peak of my workload. So I got an impulse, impromptu tattoo. I like it though. It's very simply done, fine lines, no shading-and it's the most public, on my arm. On my left upper arm, close to my heart.
It's a symbol for "moonrise." I have an infatuation with the full moon and could moongaze for hours.
It's a reminder to myself to live another day just to watch the moon rise again. To not kill myself, no suicide, because I want to see the moon. So it's been helping me try to avoid this depressive period.
It is very tiring-mentally and physically-to fight depression and anxiety. Constantly fighting back, trying to be normal again. This year though, I don't have the option to let it take over. I've got to get through my term and perform well-because I know I can. Just as long as I try my hardest.
I get these little bumps on my hands-it's quite weird. The first time I got them, was on my flight to Japan when I was 11. A schoolmate told me they were from jetlag/sleep deprivation.
But I've had them since, off and on-when I'm not sleeping, when I'm stressed out (like when I was a waitress and working many hours or finals week), or experiencing hormone changes (i.e. when I drink too much of a certain tea or start new birth control). They're little painless bumps, the size of a small mosquito bite, on my fingers, the back of my hand, my palm. Maybe a little pinkish in color, sometimes just skin-colored. I never really understood what they were exactly or what they're called. I've looked it up countless of times, but haven't really found a good match online.
But they've appeared in the last few days. I'm not too sure why-usually when they appear, I know that I am very stressed out at the time. I can feel it in my body and mind-"this is why the bumps are appearing"and either try to make myself more healthy, or ride out the workload until I get the chance to rest.
But now, I just feel mediocre; apathetic. Maybe a little anxious. But I'm sleeping decently, fine on meds, not mentally overwhelmed or stressed. Worried about my dog but not to that extreme. I know he's "in a better place now" and he had a good life.
So I don't know. I just have to figure out what's wrong exactly.
This is like my dreams. I used to be very good atpsychoanalyzing voodoo symbolsm freudian crapwith the dreams I had-I would be able to read what they meant in my mind and what my subconscious was worried about. But now…I can't even do that. The symbols don't make sense-by general contextor personal context. I can't even find what's wrong in my subconscious. It's as if its shut itself off from me almost. Maybe I need to reconnect with my subconscious.
I just felt like I was doing so well, with life and everything-and general worries, feelings of guilt, etc. The depression's still a bitch, but meds have helped curb it a little bit, and nothing else is too out of the sort. I was moving forward.
Well, I'm just gonna leave it at that. I've got 4 more hours of this work shift (desk shift, easy stuff I guess) that I'll spend doing internship work / watching netflix.
At least I got all this mess off my chest. Or did I? Oh well.
Wish you the best, DT.