Dog Therapy

    I eventually finished my summer course at my new school with expressionless indifference. I was still having strong doses of medication added to my already overwhelming concoction. This made starting school in September with everyone else impossible. It was the lowest point for me. I couldn't think, I couldn't laugh, I couldn't enjoy anything. I believe at this point I was taking 13 pills a day, which weren't even helping all that much. I was able to sleep through the pain due to all these drugs but I couldn't wake up. I'd be sleeping for 14 hours everyday and was still exhausted all the time because of the side effects. I regularly went all the way downtown to get lidocane infusions that weren't helping. The problem was when I went on a medication and it didn't work, a new one was tried instead without stopping the old one. The doctor I was going to was an anesthetist, a pain doctor. This can be good, but they are very limited in what they can do. Their sole focus is the pain, and so the way they treat it is with strong anesthesia, which can sometimes make things worse. My mind was far too clouded to realize what was going on or make any decisions for myself, so this continued for months. There were many days where I was home by myself, wallowing in pain that just wouldn't go away. I tried my hardest to keep some semblance of a social life; I went to parties with camp friends but couldn't even say 10 words I was so drugged. I'd literally walk in, lie on the couch, and sleep for a couple hours while everyone was socializing and having fun. People would try to talk to me, but at that point I might as well have been a brick wall. Point is, my life was broken, I was broken, and I wasn't happy.

      If my depression or just general sadness was hidden from view to anyone before, it certainly wasn't anymore at that point. To try to turn things around, an old childhood dream was dug up: getting a dog. It seemed like a great way to cheer me up and give me something to do at home. Plans were made and we took the few hour drive to the breeder and picked up the newest member of the family. I remember insisting we name the dog Chestaar after a chicken I took care of at camp, even if it was a girl, which it was. Looking back, I think this was me just feeling the need to get something I wanted for the first time in a long time. If I couldn't have a pain free life, if I couldn't think clearly, if I couldn't have a social life, then gawd dangit I'm gonna name my dog Chestaar. All these medications can turn you into a 5 year old trapped in a 17 year old's body; which really is what it felt like. Of course naming a female dog Chestaar is a terrible idea and so it didn't happen. Instead I was told to settle for the name Chelsee. The first time I saw Chelsee scampering around a little green field was also the first time I smiled in a long time. She truly did make me feel better for a period of time, having a dog in the house took away from some of the loneliness. Unfortunately, not even a cute little puppy can cure chronic pain.

        The little bit my 13 pills a day helped evaporated. While drugs like codeine can be effective, eventually your body builds tolerance to them and they stop working. Take notes, because if you give someone with chronic pain a drug that only works for a couple weeks, you're going to be digging yourself into a very deep, dark hole. If you didn't already guess, my opioid pills stopped working. Now I didn't only have the terrible life-halting side effects, but my pain went back to being as bad as ever. I couldn't walk my new dog. I couldn't even play video games anymore because I was so out of it, and yet in pain. I went to my psychiatrist and told him if someone doesn't help my pain soon, I would try to kill myself again. As he put it to my dad: "I'm pushed up against a wall." So to combat the tolerance I built to my medications I was sent to the anesthetist who put me on stronger doses of morphine. After a few weeks I built tolerance to that too, but you can only go so far with medication. Through the last few months of 2011 I told those who were involved with my case that I was mentally preparing myself to die. Death is not something even someone who desires it can face easily. It's infinite. Final. Irreversible. I was at least coherent enough to understand that. This didn't change anything because there wasn't much else for them to do. Let me clarify, I didn't want to die. I needed to. As someone who has experienced it, if you have such a high level of pain, for such a long time, (2 and a half years at that point) you will break down. I see this as a fact of life. Now, of course, being on uncountable numbers of medications that didn't work wasn't helping anything, but what did I mean by mentally preparing myself to die? I would have a pain surge, not uncommonly, and tell myself that it needs to end, that I need to die. I'd tell myself this while trying to convince myself death isn't so bad. I told myself there'd be no pain, that I'd be at peace. What's also a fact of life is deep down inside no one truly wants to die. Even if you're the most depressed person in the world, a little voice will always be telling you "No! Live!" It's a reaction, just as much as someone who tries to drown themselves automatically comes up for air. Mentally preparing oneself to die means drawing this voice out of its hiding place in your mind, and stabbing it with your pain and misery until it shuts up. This went on for about 2 months and ended in success for my suicidal self. I only needed one final push.