Let’s talk about mental health – she’s the best thing to happen to mine

My dad knelt by my bed, tears streaming down my face. I knew what was coming. 

I knew the question should be asked, but I wasn’t prepared.

“Have you ever thought about harming yourself?”

“No.”

I’ve only told one true lie to my parents. That was it.

Depression and anxiety aren’t things that you can describe. We try. Society tries. But they just aren’t.

I’ve been dealing with both for almost a decade and I still struggle to identify with that fact, let alone try to describe how it affects my life. 

I lied because somewhere inside me I knew that even though I had had those thoughts, I wouldn’t have gone through with it. I’d like to hope that if I had gotten to that point, I would have asked for help. 

I know that I didn’t ask for help at that turning point. I was faced with a question; did I believe I could improve in my current situation? No. So my family changed our entire situation.

Not everyone has that ability. I grew up privileged; I never felt that I had a right to be sad. Everyone’s problems felt larger than mine, and that only drove me further into my hole.

I’ve stayed quiet on this topic for most of my life; advocating the validity of mental health to friends and when it came up, but never really bringing it up myself. 

The truth is that I felt weak. 

Some days the idea of social interactions made my heart drop into my stomach. Some days even the task of getting out of bed was too much.

Some days I could not escape my own head. How come I wasn’t invited? Why did I never seem to say the right thing? Would anyone actually notice if I wasn’t here anymore? How could I have made that typo in my email? 

Little things that probably went unnoticed by everyone else would swirl in my head for hours, days, years, and draw me a bit further into isolation. 

“Fiercely independent.” 

That’s how more than one person has described me. I got so good at being alone that people felt I didn’t need them.

Spoiler alert; I needed them. I needed them more than I ever allowed myself to feel.

Time passed. I dug myself out of that hole. I met someone who helped change my entire opinion of myself. I started viewing ‘fiercely independent’ as the compliment it was intended to be, and I started recognizing my strengths. I learned not just to like myself, but to love myself.

Then I found yoga. My practice would later help me embrace therapy; the physical practice of yoga emphasizes breathing through discomfort in your body and therapy is all about moving through the discomfort in your brain (yoga is too actually, but I didn’t know that then). 

Does this emotion fit the facts? Does this emotion help me in some way? 

You cannot mute one emotion without muting all emotions.

I absorb information from my feelings. 

Therapy and yoga have introduced that mantra into my life. But I did not truly understand its purpose, until Pinot.

The pure joy of having her that first week made me literally dance around in my room with her, sing silly songs as we completed mundane tasks, and plastered a smile on face for days. I was unrecognizable to those closest to me. I was happy.

I didn’t realize that I was learning to tune into my feelings, good and bad, until I was confronted with the pure joy that she brought.

I didn’t realize the efforts of that work. I allowed myself to feel the hopelessness that overtook me some days for no reason, the anxiety that comes with social interactions (pre-pandemic), the uncertainty of the world around us (amid-pandemic). And in doing so I got to feel the joy of this AMAZING new experience.

Pinot brings something that provides so much positivity into my life. 

I can no longer hide away under my covers. Pinot needs to be fed. Pinot needs to go to the bathroom, and no matter how smart she is, she doesn’t have opposable thumbs. Pinot needs to go for walks (multiple of them), or she’ll plow me down with her zoomies. 

But beyond her basic needs, she wants me to be with her. She pushes me to play when we’ve been sitting for too long. She covers my face with kisses when I sleep in too late; she’s ready to face the day and wants me by her side to do it. 

She gives me structure, a routine, and the responsibility of knowing that someone is depending on me to keep to it. Even though my family says I know way too much about her bathroom habits, she gives me a purpose.

Pinot expresses her vulnerability every day. Loudly. 

She has no problem using her voice when she needs something. She will whine when she feels ignored; howl in excitement when her family is around her; baby bark when she’s surprised; welp when she needs to relieve herself.

It’s a funny twist of fate that I ended up with a dog who is so vocal about her feelings when I struggle to show (and share) mine.

Recently an announcer commented that an NFL quarterback’s admission of dealing with depression was weak and made him not a leader. Years ago, that would have cemented my inclination that I was weak as well. 

Words matter. Just like sticks and stones, words have the power to break someone. To use words recklessly, especially when in a position of power or influence, is dangerous.

Especially when you are given a megaphone on national TV. 

Expressing vulnerability is a strength and a form of leadership.

That sentence has taken years to believe, and even more to say publicly. But it’s a sentence that needs to be said, and repeated.

I’m working on showing my vulnerability and embracing all emotions. But in the meantime, Pinot’s got my back and will keep my booty moving (even if it’s just around our block).

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P.S. I knew I wanted to write about how Pinot has helped me with my mental health, but this story by Lindsey Adler inspired me to actually take my fingers to the keyboard.