Happy Anti-versary

Let me start by saying: we're all crazy. The problems we have; the way we react to them and the world around us stems from what goes on inside of those hefty, only barely understood noggin of ours.

The idea that anyone has their life together, despite the representation that they might, is a myth. The greatest ignis fatuus of the human mind is creating a scenery that we find, within ourselves, to be perfect. To some extent, I think we all convince ourselves that our cleverly constructed idea of life is stable until, the metaphor of, a pin drops arresting the curtain from a poorly veiled stage.

What separates each one of us from the other is simply how self-aware we are of the contrary. Do you or do you not know that you and the world you live in are crazy?

I can say, with both certainty and confidence, that I am, indeed, crazy. And I've been either blessed or cursed to rediscover that with each passing day.

Turns out being cooped up in a house with only your parents and animals to talk to can, in fact, push you over that oh-so-esteemed imaginary 'edge'. If I hadn't known that I had dropped off that ledge years ago and plummeted in to the depths of insanity, there's a good chance I wouldn't be in a state semi-stable enough to even be writing this.

With medical issues consistently surfacing since the food poisoning I got on vacation, I've been dealt a one-two punch directly to the gut, counting me down and out for about two months now. The hospital staff and I are becoming either really great friends or severely sworn enemies. Seeing as the first visit last month was friendly and the second one...not so much.

On the other hand I'm beginning to swing back in to searching and applying for jobs. Thus rediscovering why I abhorred it so much once before. So much is factored online now for jobs and plausible interviews. Currently I'm fed up with the whole technological details of it all (she said as she blogged her thoughts in a typing stampeded flurry). I would, personally, love to march in to a company and be "I'm awesome. You're awesome. Everybody's awesome. Crazy idea here. You should hire me." And of course they would be astounded that someone as insanely spontaneous, creative and brazen as I could have such courage to demand a position of authority whereas they would (in complete rapture) cave upon themselves, giving in to my every whim. Well...alright, let's be serious for a moment...not every whim. Just most of them. 

Like all of them.

Because this whole "job search" thing isn't doing it for me (not that it's supposed to).

I've had semi-conscious nightmares about jobs that I only read as a description, not applied for. And if those delusions weren't enough for my tiny inubsequent brain to inhale, then my dysfunctional mind felt oddly compelled to make my anxiety (which has only ever made an appearance once or twice every year) blow up so that I could gently factor in an almost full-scale meltdown. 

I say "almost" because, despite that I nearly did, I didn't end up dropping to the floor in a bycariously fetal position, screaming at the top of my lungs before nuzzling myself to sleep with my thumb stuck in my mouth. At the time of my attacks, I'll have you know, this scenario sounded pretty tempting.

In order to quell the perpetual doom cloud that has seemingly been ticking over me, my mom ended up purchasing me a journal. If I could learn to be a little more selfish and voice my issues, I probably wouldn't have this issue. It's as though I have some kind of invisible sealant on my mouth because when I try to voice my problems, they come out mush. I'm always worried about burdening others or how no one wants to hear about my problems. 

Well, journal, good thing you can't speak because I have been abusing you like no other. Rather, good thing you cant scream. Or run. 

Research shows that you have to be consistent with journaling. Five to fifteen minutes a day being dedicated to writing your "feelings" (or in my case "dysfunctions") has been known to help improve mental health. It's not something to be ashamed about either (though I admit I was). There are a lot of people with mental health issues. Some more than others (as we all can get a clear view of every time you turn the News on). Those that don't think they have a neurosis or aren't mentally afflicted in some seemingly benign way, are most likely just in deep doo-doo denial. So do them a favor and give those peeps a hug, yeah? They're much worse off than you if you can at least acknowledge some sense of crazy. Don't give them a hug if they have a gun in their hands though. The only kind of hug that needs is a wrestling hug to an unforgiving hard surface, arm-bar choking them until reinforcements arrive to salute you like a regular UFC pro. Unless of course you're weak. Like me. 

Anyway, instead of faking a hero status, I've been writing everyday in that journal. It's done wonders that I, the queen of rambling, have a difficult time expressing. For one thing, I don't feel like death is upon me every time I have an ache or pain I don't fully understand. And for another, I'm not freaking out every time I go in to a public place. Yup. It was that bad for an entire week. 

I'm easing my way back in to society. Though it remains to be seen if that is a good or bad thing. 

On to what prompted this blog post in the first place and what it is truly about:

Finn has officially been a Russell member for one year to the day! Eep!

I was so excited to get an unexpected text from Emily, congratulating us on our full year together. I know I've said it before, but I'm still so glad that Emily was the person to swoop in and rescue Finn. She's such a wonderful individual to have not only met, but to have adopted from. At first, I thought adopting from a foster mom would prove to share difficulties (after so many failed adoption attempts), but I'm so glad I decided to go through with it.

For the record, he still sleeps in a crate, he still runs at every unfamiliar sound, he's still petrified of strangers to the point of soiling himself in public and he still shakes uncontrollably when circumstances around him change from what he's used to. 

Despite all of that (taking in to account the first day he came home with me) he no longer vomits every time change occurs, he also has learned to restrain himself better on ripping up random objects. He doesn't detonate his gas bombs anymore after a stressful day, he doesn't hide in corners where he can't be fully seen, he doesn't use a harness or leash to roam our yard (though I need it occasionally when he gets too close to the road and doesn't listen to me) and he doesn't avoid my father the way he used to. 

As a testament to his progress, we took him to the vet a couple of days ago and he didn't defecate himself. Granted, he piddled a bit on the floor and a little when the vets were able to get him on the metal table, but other than that there was no real major clean up "doody/duty".

The only thing that was a little more than a tad difficult was lifting him on to the scale. Too scared to maneuver on to the metal himself, I ended up extracting him from under the waiting room bench and placing him on the scale. I haven't lifted him in a while because it was getting to a point where carrying him was presenting me with back problems. The first vet visit, a few months after I was able to acquaint Finn fairly well with our house and the family inside of it, he just barely weighed forty pounds. Now he's a whopping fifty-four pounds! I understand for most dogs that may not sound like such a huge number, but for short-stack that's a leap and bound from where he was at. I can even see the start of, what I'm calling, his "pot-belly". I'll just have to find a method to get him to exercise a bit more outside.

 (Before photo: weighing forty pounds)

(After photo: weighing fifty-four pounds)

After we were able to get a stable number for his weight, he was taken in to the examination room.

He took everything like a champ and after I was able to relay his story to one of the technicians (her name's Katie she's awesome [lets be honest, every Katie I meet is full of awesome-sauce]), she offered that I stop by anytime the place was open without an appointment. She said I could just walk in and tell them that I'm there for a visit, since she's aware of my jobless situation. They were all more than happy to invite Finn back to help him learn that not every person is going to hurt him. And what great people to be around for him to understand such a concept.

I even went so far as to ask if they needed help around there (job wise). Of course you need to be able to put a catheter in an animal...one skill I most certainly have not acquired. Still, I'm keeping my spirits up and who knows? Maybe Finn will become like the medical centers mascot. 

Not to say he won't soil himself again because, even though he didn't poop this time around, I'm sure he'll be trying to save a massive turdle-doo for the next visit. Finn-logic dictates such a prediction. He could prove me wrong, but his track record of one step forward, two steps back hasn't yet failed. And I have my helmet at the ready as I wait for the bomb to drop. 

To end our anniversary, I'll leave you with some Finn photos: