Sheba's Love

My dog loves me and I love her.  There are few things as sweet as the love of a dog. I sometimes think we humans don't quite deserve such unfailing and accepting love.

Sheba is a rescue dog. We got her from the Echo Glen Children's Center. The kids give rescue dogs basic canine good citizenship training. Then, the dogs graduate out of the program and are adopted.  The kids have to say goodbye to their dog buddy. That is hard for all involved.

I thought Sheba would be good with kids and other dogs based on this training environment.  My mistake. Sheba is our second rescue dog. I knew they can be quirky due to their prior life experiences. I didn't realize how quirky. Sheba has PTSD. That is okay. We share that diagnosis.  But, it has caused problems with her and, from her perspective, the great unknown.

We know precious little about her previous life. All we know is that she was rescued from a home in Idaho with too many animals. The rest we can only extrapolate based on her behavior.  She does not like men in hats or people carrying things.  "Hi, good to see you.  Please take off your hat before we introduce you to our dog" or "I see you are holding something.  Could you put that down while you greet the dog?"

She sees other dogs as a threat either to us or her terrain.  Unfortunately, she thinks children are other dogs.  They are small, make excited high pitched sounds, and move quickly. This has never happened to us before.  We have always enjoyed certainty that our dogs are safe with children and everyone else.

I did not know how one could parse out a bite with so much detail. After all, a bite is a bite. Right?  Maybe not.

"Did she hurt you?" I ask.

"No, she only put her mouth softly on my hand to let me know she was in charge."

Oh, god, that is so scary.  I talked to the trainer of "reactive dogs" which I didn't even know was a thing.  She said, "At least, she showed bite inhibition."  WHAT?  Bite inhibition!  I think, "How close are we to danger?"  I'm afraid if she does anything bad we will loose her. As a result, we watch her very carefully.

Sheba and I literally met on line.  After my old, exceptionally well trained, dog died, I was impatient to get another dog due to the incredible loneliness.  I prowled the Internet pet finder sites.  I figure I looked at over 500 dogs.  I had my heart set on a rescue border collie who was reclaimed by her owner after making promises to the rescue group to treat her better.  I saw Sheba on line.  She was beautiful...a long haired, brindle dog at 67 pounds of mixed heritage including Australian Shepard.  Her eyes looked keen and alert.  I looked into that face and something resonated.  Who knew it was a kindred spirit, PTSD, abuse survivor thing?

We contacted the children's center.  She was available and would graduate soon.  The process was for her to come for a weekend to see if we were all a match.  We knew that she had spent a weekend with another family who had returned her saying they lived on a busy road, and she didn't come when they called.  Why would she?  She didn't know them.

She came for a trial weekend.  She was a larger dog than we wanted, but we have always had big dogs.  So, it seemed like it was just in the cards. (She's a healthy 90 pounder now.)  I laid on the rug with her, and we cuddled. I was smitten. This was my first and probably last successful  on-line dating experience.

We had to take her back that Sunday so she could finish her training and graduate with her trainer. Taking her back was hard. My partner said she didn't want her for another weekend until we could keep her for good.  So, we waited for graduation.

At the graduation, we met her trainer.  He was a 15 year old kid named Ethan. He proudly told us he'd been sober for two years. How does a 13 year old have to enter sobriety?  I shudder to think. But, what am I saying?  I was in a children's center when I was 14.

Ethan said Sheba had saved him, and he loved her.  He was moving on to a community recovery center on the other side of the state.  We were glad and hoped he wouldn't miss her so much if he wasn't at the same center.  It was a tearful goodbye.  It was a sadness out of our control.  We promised him we would take good care of her...always.

As I write this, she's laying next to me on the couch. It's 10:30 in the evening. About 30 minutes ago, she walked over to the couch and told me with her eyes and body language that she wanted to cuddle on the couch. Who can resist an offer like that?  Not me.

We have a rule. Or I should say, I have a rule that she can only be on the couch if she's with me. Oddly for the most part, she follows that rule.  I am probably just fooling myself.  But, I seldom catch her on the couch.

One of the most difficult parts of being in relationship with a dog is knowing I will most likely out live her. Because she was rescued at three years old or so, my time with her will be shortened by at least that much.  I deal with that knowledge by being present with her. She is here.  I know I am very lucky to enjoy her exceptional love tonight while she is laying next to me. I love you, Sheba. Thank you for filling my heart with love right now in this moment. I will always cherish it even after you are long gone, and I am searching for dog love again.

Joceile

5.25.16

PTSD & Prince

I was dreaming along last night.  There was something going on in some city.  All of a sudden a man drove by in some vehicle screaming.  At first, I thought it was a joke, but his scream was so horrifying that I realized it was based on terror.  Then, he went by twice more and continued screaming.

Suddenly, I woke up.  My heart was pounding.  I looked at the top of the windows where I could see some sky from my place on the bed.  I wondered, "Where in the hell am I?"  It looked like the windows were part of some hotel room.  Gradually, it dawned on me that it was my own bedroom and the windows were mine.

I could still hear the man screaming in my mind.  I realized it was the whistle of the train that goes by at night.  It blasts four times as it crosses a road near me.  I thought to myself, "This is the very definition of PTSD.  Something that is regular in your life that turns into a monster."

I continued to hear the man screaming.  I thought to myself, "Why do I know what it sounds like when a man screams?"  Half visions of abuse and threatening behavior flashed through my mind.  I wanted to wake up my partner and tell her, "I can't stand living in my mind anymore."  But at our age when sleep can be so hard to come by, we have an understanding not to wake each other unless it is a crisis.

It was 1:30 in the morning.  It had been three hours since I went to bed.  I couldn't shake the sound of the screaming in my mind, but I didn't want to get up.  I thought to put on my headphones and listen to music.  I started four songs from the end of my playlist.  As I listened to Prince's "When Doves Cry," I drifted off to sleep before "Purple Rain" started.

Mental health recovery is both a very long path and illusive.  Each nightmare is slightly different than the next.  Processing one is another voyage from processing another.  My mind is busy trying to process that which is un-processable.

Fortunately, I have resources.  Good night, sweet Prince.


Joceile
5.11.16

How We Learn to do Our Best Work

Who are your role models for how you operate in the world and do the work you do? I'll tell you about mine.

When I was twelve in 1970, I was a troubled kid. I had abusive and neglectful parents. I struggled with mental illness. (At that time, no one knew my struggles were based on trauma.) I started junior high school and was having difficulties with a teacher that was picking on me. I met with the school counselor, Mrs. Keenan. After talking with me, she took me out of the class with the problem teacher and put me in the library to assist with the librarian for that period.

Although I was a straight A student, over the next year, my mental health issues worsened. Mrs. Keenan found ways to support me. She started meeting with me weekly. I didn't exactly know why, but I was so grateful to have someone to talk to that wasn't my mother that I didn't try to puzzle it out.

After trying to talk to my mother and finding a brick wall repeatedly, Mrs. Keenan opted for ways to care for me outside of collaborating with my mother. On the days when I came to school with major dissociative issues, she knew that sending me home was not going to help me. So, she put me in a quiet room with a cot in the school clinic. She let me stay as long as I needed to. She checked in on me once every 45 minutes or so until I felt like I could go back to class.

When my issues around self harm started, she asked to meet with me every morning when school started. I said, "But, aren't you too busy to find time to meet with me every day?"

Her response was, "We'll meet first thing. I'm not that busy first thing in the morning." Again, I gratefully accepted her offer. I was just trying to figure out how to get by.

That picture in my work cubicle by Andrew Wyeth entitled "Day of the Fair" is part of her legacy to me. On a day when she took me to see my psychologist, Dr. Williams, during school, I admired that picture in my psychologist's office. Dr. Williams graciously gave me the picture. I was so honored but didn't feel like I could take it home. Mrs. Keenan took it to her office and placed it on her wall so I could come look at it whenever I wanted.

Mrs. Keenan told me I could have the painting whenever I wanted it. I wasn't ready, and she kept that picture in her office for me for 17 years until I finally got an office of my own and told her I was ready to take it. She had it framed for me before she gave it to me. (It was a good thing I was ready, because by then she was nearing retirement.)

After I ran away from home in the spring of 1972, Mrs. Keenan worked with the school psychologist to get me the mental health care I needed. With my parent's approval, Mrs. Keenan drove me to Lakewood to help me get admitted to Child Study and Treatment Center of Western State Hospital. I believed I was in a safe place, because she had taken me there, and I trusted her.

When I got out of Western State Hospital and went to live with my grandparents in the fall of 1972, Mrs. Keenan was there at school, supporting me, meeting with me weekly, and communicating with my grandmother.

I continued to have a free period every day in the library each year. I didn't know why exactly, but it worked for me. In fact, when I moved on to high school, I met the school counselor and again was given a free period during the day. In reflecting back on it, I understand it was a method to accommodate my need for some processing time during the day. I only recently realized that all the counselors were working in tandem to help me continue to have good grades and be successful.

This is feeling like a long story, but the point here is this: When I contemplate how I work with employees and the ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act). I realize that Mrs. Keenan's treatment of me is the model for the caring I express to those I work with. In reaching out to someone who is struggling, I make Mrs Keenan like decisions in how to help them stay afloat so they can continue to be successful. I must have looked much like a struggling employee to my school counselors. That is reasonable accommodation.

Mrs. Keenan taught me how to care for people I am not responsible for. She taught me to know when to cross the line from strictly professional to compassionate specialist. She modeled for me how to be my best self when dealing with others whose struggles I can merely nudge in the right direction but not fix.

It's hard to find the words to express my incredible appreciation, but I might have given it a good go here. So, the question for all of us is: Who are we modeling? What behavior are we modeling? It is worth considering. After those questions, the final one is: How is this working out for me and the world around me? If I can answer that in the affirmative, then I have grasped the essence of what Mrs. Keenan taught me.

Joceile 12.28.15

Your Secret is Safe With Me

My coworker, Betty Carter, told me that it is National Disability Employment Awareness Month and asked me if I wanted to participate. I thought it might be a good time to come out. No, not as a Lesbian or for those who don’t know me well, a woman, but as a person who struggles with mental health issues and has for many, many years. There is so much stigma attached to having mental health issues that I think, even now, “Am I risking my career? Am I risking the confidence people have placed in me by admitting that I am a person who struggles with mental health issues.” And for all that, if I, as the ADA Specialist for the state of Washington, with a long successful career, have concerns about putting this in writing, what is it like for others?

Of course, I know very well what it is like for others. They wonder what people are thinking about them. Coworkers think: Can I trust him? Is she gonna loose it at work? What does it mean when someone is hospitalized for a psychiatric issue? When can I trust that they are all there?

I have been struggling with mental health since I was 12. I have been hospitalized more times than I can count for wanting to harm myself or commit suicide. I have worked and worked to be as much as I can be in the world, interacting with others, and making a difference. I am proud of what I have accomplished. I want to support others to do the same.

I came from a family that was very violent and abusive in every imaginable way. I am certainly not alone.

My daughter is 28. I pledged to myself that I would not pass on the evil that was passed to me by my parents for whom it was passed to them by their parents for whom it was passed to them, etc. etc. I go to counseling every week and have since I was 12. At 14, I was in Child Study and Treatment Center in Western State Hospital for five months. I was able to leave the hospital and live with my grandparents, for whom I was named: Joe and Lucille. They loved me profoundly and saved my life.

I grew up thinking I would never see my 21st birthday. I am thankful every year on my birthday for another success. I have been honored with a long list of people that have loved and cared for me as far back as my junior high school counselor who had never had to deal with a student that was troubled the way I was in 1972.

At 22, a friend who worked in Affirmative Action told me that I was a person of disability. I was very surprised and had never considered myself that way. All it really meant was that I was aware that I had to do some things differently than some other people. So, I work part-time. I work to make real contact with the people I work with and meet. I do not shirk away from challenges. And, boy, life has just kept challenges coming.

I have been in a relationship for the last 25 years. I am very happy with my life; although, I don’t always get what I want. That is what this thing called life is about. I love my partner, my daughter, and my dog. I look at the water, the mountain, and the trees, and realize that I have a very good life, and I’m grateful.

So, if you have questions about me, or questions about how to care for yourself, give me a call or send me an e-mail, because I have a lot of patience for all of us who at one time or another find ourselves on the hard side of life.

Joceile 10.06.14