My first foray into therapy was way back in 1990/1991.  I was at University of Michigan, surrounded by people with PhDs and professional certifications and Birkenstocks.  It seemed natural, almost compulsory, that I end up in therapy while living in Ann Arbor. I was taking a class on Freudian-inspired literature.  I was somewhat morose. I spent more time in coffee houses than bars, and I had lots of dysfunctional relationships.  Bring on the therapy!

I got lucky, though. I ended up with Rachel, and she dutifully listened to my privileged white-girl rants about my life, relationship and parents.  Oh, poor me, living in an apartment paid for by my parents, attending great school on their dime, and taking classes called (I kid you not) “Math for Poets”.  (side note: that class *may* be explanation for my inability to solve simple equations)

In all seriousness, I was involved in very bizarre and long-standing relationship with a guy.  It was fraught with drama, late-night phone calls and lies.  Lots of lies.  Mix in my weight at the time (a hefty 98 pounds) and too much time spent with head in books and you had a girl in need of head-shrinking. 

Those early day of therapy were heady to say the least.  We criss-crossed my childhood, the origins of my food weirdness, and dissected my relationship with aforementioned dude in minute detail.  I told her things I had never even told myself, then analyzed them with her.  I wrote incessantly.  I was journaling an average of 10 pages a day.  The proverbial crap was pouring out of me, and I felt free.  She thought I had clinical depression.  I got free medical treatment at U of M’s hospital and began my long love affair with Zoloft sometime in 1991.  Between Rachel and the medication, my life literally changed.  I didn’t end my relationship with the guy for another 7 years, but I was able to call it what it was, and I was no longer able to delude myself into thinking it was something else.  I stopped abusing food and my body.  I cut unhealthy people out of my life.  I took my medication dutifully.  I tried to be a better person.  I started dating a normal guy (i.e., one without another girlfriend) and generally spent a very happy senior year living the life in Ann Arbor.  Political protests - the annual Hash Bash - the Objectivists study group - lunches spoken entirely in German - Women’s Literature studies - oh my god what a huge nerd I was. 

After graduation, I took a road trip with the normal boyfriend.  When I came back, I got a job and stopped therapy. I wasn’t on my parent’s insurance (or dime) anymore and couldn’t afford luxuries like therapy when I was making $16,800 a year. 

Therapy and I have met up since then.  When my friendly eating issues came back with a vengeance, I was smart enough to go back.  When Mike and I got engaged and I was nearly having a nervous breakdown over wedding and financial pressures, we both went for premarital counseling.  I’m a big fan of counseling.  Nothing makes you be honest about how imperfect you are than someone else holding up the world’s most truthful mirror. 

Today at 1 PM I’m about to revisit the whole head-shrinking phenomenom.  My awesome neighbor (and friend) offered to watch Arden for me while I go. 

About three years ago, I went through a difficult time.  I didn’t talk to anyone about it.  I went silent but continued to smile.  I told myself things like, “There is nothing wrong. You are spoiled.  Deal with it.  Snap out of it.”  I repeated these things for about a year before the “affirmations” worked and I stopped thinking about it.  This year, those same thoughts resurfaced and I have to deal with them.  When it happened this time, I knew I had to talk to someone who could help me sort through the mess that is my head right now.  Since I am a mom and a wife, I can’t just run away to a quiet place and collect myself.  The good thing about that is I can’t hide.  You can’t stay in bed all day when your kids need to be fed and loved and driven places.  And when you live with someone, you can only go so long before all the unsaid things hang in the air between you like cobwebs and you absolutely must clear them away. 

I know that I need to go.  I believe in the power of self-awareness.  But I’m scared crapless as well. I really don’t want to deal with a lot of this.  I don’t want to look, I don’t want to feel, and I’m afraid of what is lurking below.  The fear isn’t going to stop me, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.  I am looking forward to gaining clarity, no matter how difficult that clarity is going to be. 

I want to blog about today, but I just can’t.  Delilah passed away around 3.15 this afternoon. Oddly enough, when the vet listened to her heart, I kept expecting her to call out “Time of death . . . 3.15 pm” a la Grey’s Anatomy or ER.  She didn’t.  I have what could be considered the worst headache of my life, brought on by crying far too much over the past two days and not eating much today.  I did have the presence of mind to take some pictures today of the girls with Delilah, and I will post them tomorrow. I can’t look at them tonight.

I do want to say thanks to everyone who commented and took the time to share their pet stories with me.  It helps.  It helps hearing that others have gone through it and think it’s brutally hard, as I do. It helps to hear that others have made hard decisions - knowing that it is best for your pet even when it feels totally wrong to you.  Dogs are definitely the bomb - we will have another one day - but for now I’m trying to focus on 15 years of happy memories without turning into a fountain every time.  I’ll post the pictures and wonderful experience with the vet tomorrow if I can bring myself to do so. 

Dear Delilah,

I know that for the last few years, all you’ve heard is “Delilah, MOVE”  or “Delilah, you stink!”  or, “Delilah, stop snoring!”  I also know that ever since your beloved sisters were born, you’ve been last place in the pecking order.  It must have been hard, going from “Top Dog” to “Dog, Get Out Of My Way Or Lily Will Pull Your Tail”. 

I got you in 1994, a year after I graduated from college.  Getting you then was selfish, I know.  I already sensed that Doug and I were going to split, and I knew he was going to take Sam, our black lab, with him.  I couldn’t bear the thought of being dogless so we drove out to Pinckney, Michigan, to a farm that had advertised free puppies. There you were, in a pile of dirt under a double-wide.  Your dog brothers and sisters were all barking and jumping; you were hiding.  It was love at first sight, even after you peed on me during the car ride back to Ann Arbor. 

Those first few years are a blur.  I counted:  we moved 10 times in three states between 1994 and 1998.  You moved with me from Whitmore Lake to Hendersonville, NC, then to Raleigh, Charlotte, and finally Richmond.  You amazed my rock climbing friends by being more mountain goat and less mutt - jumping from rock to rock, climbing without ropes, and having more stamina than any dog should.  When I met Mike, and he “adopted” you, you stopped ripping up linoleum floors and wallpaper and started behaving. I guess you just needed some male dominance.  Mike was the ultimate dog-dad:  he took you on errands, wrestled with you, walked and ran you, and very few Saturdays passed where you didn’t go into work with him.  He even rescued a baby duckling from your mouth - apparently you were so surprised you actually caught something you didn’t know what to do with it once you did.  (PS - the duckling was fine)

As I looked back through 15 years worth of photos, I couldn’t believe how many trips we took, how many carpets you ate, and how much I loved you.  Trips to the ocean, romps on the golf course in South Carolina, rock climbing camping trips, hikes with Julie.  True, once Lily and Arden came around the car rides stopped, but all the food they spilled on the floor more than made up for it.  At least I hope it did. 

You have been a fabulous dog.  Lots of people came and went in my life - you stayed.  You came. You sat.  Sometimes you even obeyed.  Many times I used you as a pillow when I cried over some guy, until your coat was soggy and you’d had enough of that crap.  Making this decision has been excruciating for me and Mike.  We had to put aside our selfish desire to keep you with us as long as possible, and put you first.  I know you don’t understand or like what is happening to your body, why your legs don’t work, or why even being stroked doesn’t seem to feel good to you anymore. 

We will all try to be happy that you don’t have pain or unpleasantries when you are gone.  I will try to believe in Dog Heaven, since I’ve told the girls you will be keeping Mim’s bed warm up there, and I’ve promised them that in your heaven, it’s steak for dinner every night, tick-free fields for romping, and fluffy flannel beds for sleeping.  Life down here will be a lot more lonely.  Arden has told me that she will never love a dog as much as you, NO MATTER WHAT (emphasis hers).  We agree.  There is no replacing you.  I just thank you for all the years of fun and joy and comfort you gave to me, and your family.  Up in Dog Heaven, they’ll even let you eat the ducklings you catch. 

Driving through Carytown yesterday, I saw a huge “Closing Sale” sign on one of my favorite stores, Lane Sanson.  I was hoping they were just moving - No such luck. 

Carytown is one of my favorite places in Richmond.  On a personal level, it reminds me of those glorious years of pre- and post-marital bliss, wandering the streets looking at clothing I couldn’t afford and buying crap I didn’t need for the house.  If you want something unusual, Carytown is the place to get it.  It was a nice break from the miles of suburban wasteland and strip malls.  In the back of my mind, I always dreamed I’d open a store there, except I hated working retail, so I kind of knew that was never going to happen. 

Lane Sanson, along with Mongrel, are two of my favorite places to shop for wedding and Christmas presents.  About 80% of my cool ornaments come from LS, and all of my great magnets come from Mongrel.  Most of my friends and family received wedding presents from LS.  Let’s hope Mongrel can hold on - otherwise Carytown will have nothing for me except Nacho Mama’s, and Nacho Mama’s is not Weight Watchers approved.  Mmmm, margarita.  But I digress. 

I talked to one of the manufacturers we carry at Sassy Monsters yesterday.  One of her shirts was featured in People Magazine recently, and she was hoping more stores would pick up her line.  Instead, she got a bunch of individual orders - which is great, yes, but it’s a sign of the times.  Some of the stores that carry her have gone out out of business.  In a nice way, she was asking me about our future.  For now, I’m okay.  Thankfully I never did go to Carytown, or one of the big malls.  Overhead can be managed, and as long as I’m making enough to pay down the credit line (paying myself right now is out of the question), Gloria Gaynor and I will survive. 

Still, the sadness I feel as I roam Cary Street and see all the “For Lease” signs break my heart.  These are small business owners, just like me.  These are places I’ve frequented, supported, and loved since I’ve been in Richmond.  I know that this is cyclical and eventually things will turn around, but it doesn’t make the “Closing” signs any easier to stomach. 

I’ve been really touched and affected by the passing of Mike and Heather Spohr’s 17th month old daughter, Maddie.  Although I didn’t “know” them, I randomly and sporadically followed Heather’s blog.  I followed her on twitter, and seeing her updates go from a very scared mom of a daughter having trouble breathing to silence, then to a final simple link with the news that Maddie had passed was just literally heartwrenching. 

The funeral service was today. Heather and Mike both wrote posts in honor of Maddie, and I was beyond words after reading them.  That they can both write so clearly and beautifully in the middle of what has to be the worst heartbreak/ache in the world blows my mind.  To be able to focus on all of the beautiful things about your child, instead of raging at the world or god or whomever for taking her away - is more than I could ever do.  (note:  the site is under heavy traffic so please be patient with the loading/unloading.  you can also read both posts here.)

Although it’s hard to read, I encourage you to read it anyway.  It made me so grateful for my two girls, sleeping peacefully upstairs.  I will be able to hold them again tomorrow, and kiss them, and breathe in their scent, and be around their goofiness and their sweetness. 

**Update:  both SassyMonsters.com and NapMatsandMore.com are offering a 5% discount code (it’s maddie10).  If you use the code, you get 5% off, and Maddie’s March of Dimes account gets 5%.**