Healing – …on the B.L.

This past year has been quite the year. So long!

I turned twenty-nine.

I rescued a dog, who had thirteen puppies.

I raised those puppies and that dog in the midst of a global pandemic while depending on the kindness of family and friends as we bought a house as we dealt with rare puppy disorders as we coped with Dylan losing his job as my work slowed down to a near halt as we criss-crossed the country.

For the first three months of the pandemic, I was stuck inside with fifteen dogs, of which thirteen were completely dependent upon their mama and me. I was run ragged to the point of complete exhaustion. My body was even starting to give out under the physical strain of toting around thirteen large puppies.

As a constant struggler of anxiety, depression, PTSD, and in a perpetual nihilistic crisis, it was not an ideal time to be trapped inside with me, myself, and my multiple internal narratives of doom for company.

Now, I work from home under normal circumstances, so I am very used to my own company. I used to joke about never leaving the house, but that’s not nearly true. I was always on the go. Having lunch with friends, traveling, going to dog parks, attending events, exploring fun Houston things, creating content, and so much more. My calendar and life were filled with talented people who inspire me.

Everything changed. The puppies gave me a brief respite. They’ve helped alleviate the catastrophic train wreck that would have been my mental health with their pure existence in my life. But during the pandemic, I’ve felt like I’m watching my impending quarter-life crisis trundling right at me for all of the reasons: imagined and real.

I turn thirty in one week. I am not one of those women who are scared of turning thirty. In fact, I quite embrace it. The vast majority of me is so ready to be out of my twenties. Those really sucked a big D. I’ve gone so far as to preemptively tell people I’m thirty for the last few months because why the fuck not. At the same time, thirty does come with its fair share of burdens.

As a woman, this is an age where culture, society, the media are persistently confronting me with an alarm clock ticking down the time left on my worth to and in this world.

I feel like time is running out. I’m almost thirty. Society is a barrage that, as a woman, life ends at thirty. I know it doesn’t. So far all the women I know over thirty have not ceased to exist when their 10,957 day arrived. But, no matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t help internalizing all the cues telling me life as I know it is over for me and, in a week, I’ll be shipped off to the glue factor with last month’s Kentucky Derby winner—who even remembers that horse anyways. I think if we took the part where I had to age in society out of the equation, I wouldn’t care at all. If I could hermit á la Michel de Montaigne circa 1571, I don’t think I would give a rats ass about aging and this post wouldn’t exist at all. Unfortunately, I must be of this world.

Me wearing the bikini and being all but thirty in this world because I can and will and won’t stop.

I would be 100% lying to you if I said, “I have not ended up covered in snot crying on the kitchen floor being held by my partner as the dogs try to figure out what’s wrong with their seemingly resilient mama because I’m getting older and the world will stop looking at me and stop caring because I have a gray hair (I haven’t found one yet; that’s not a lie) and the hints of forehead wrinkles so none of my big dreams will come true because they haven’t come to fruition yet and all this work has been for naught and fucking life is hard.” That would be a lie. It would be a lie if I said it didn’t happen at regular intervals over the last two years. I’m not scared of getting older, but I’m scared of how the world will treat me as I get older. The world hasn’t been kind to me for the first thirty years when I was apparently worth something, so how the hell is it going to be for the next seventy years? Society tells me: not great.

Life is terrifying. There is so much to process, handle, solve, enjoy, escape, see, do, taste, smell, and avoid all the time; honestly, I love each and every one of those pieces of living life. But being an aging woman is just terrifying. I know it’s different for me than it was for my mother and grandmothers, but things haven’t changed so much that wrinkles and grays and numbers don’t matter in the world. They do. And I don’t really care for anyone to tell me otherwise because my entire life all I’ve ever been validated for is my looks and what that means for my place in the world. The marriage I could make, the doors that will open, the way life will be “easier” because I was tall, thin, fair. So for me and my life experience, the moment my boobs start to droop, my waistline starts to expand, my hair starts to thin, my skin starts to slacken, what will I be? Who will care? It doesn’t matter and has never mattered that I’m intelligent, well-spoken, a linguist, possess a wicked wit, kind, giving, accepting, an activist, a writer, a creative, a critic, a dog mom, a friend, and all the other things that actually make me me and interesting and complex. My existence has always and almost solely been validated and made worthy by the way I look.

Who I am has always just been a positive addendum to the way I look.

I have never liked close up portraits. My teeth are funny. My nose is weird. I’m hyper critical of everything. As I get older, I see the lines, the pores, the acne that had never been there, everything. But if I don’t take them now, I never will, and I’ll look back and say, “damnit, I should have.” And I don’t do regret.

So… I love getting older. I’m wiser, funnier, smarter, humbler, more experienced, a better listener, a better talker, a deeper thinker than I was at twenty. I think I’m cuter, but that’s probably because I know how to do my makeup better. I truly and completely love getting older. Life is so much better than it was twenty years ago, ten years ago, a year ago. I know myself more completely. I am happier at a week away from thirty than I was at a week away from twenty.

But… I’m scared of getting older. I don’t know how the world will treat me. I know how the world has treated women. I know how I want the world to treat women. And goddamnit, I have the audacity to age like the women who’ve come before me.

Now… I can only do one thing. Wake up tomorrow and keep on living my life. I’m going to moisturize and exercise—sometimes, infrequently, it will become a habit—to fight off aging physically, emotionally, but most of all mentally. More than anything, I’m going to keep working on my dreams. I’m going to keep creating new dreams. I’m going to strive for happiness. I’m going to live my life fully and enthusiastically surrounded by weirdos who love life and me. I’m going to support women and be everyone’s cheerleader. I’m going to be kind and find beauty in my body as it changes with the days and years I have ahead of me. I’m going to write. I’m going to lift up women’s voices of all ages because the world needs to remember that we women continue to evolve not stagnate. I’m going to tell my stories because I have seventy more years of stories, and I’ve hardly started on telling the first thirty years. My life isn’t over. I’m not done living. I will age with audacity.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Just so you know, these pictures were taken this morning. She was in a very good mood with a wagging tail and being bribed with treats. Lots of treats. I would never invade her privacy or exploit her during an anxiety attack. She’s very good at putting on the sad puppy eyes for treats; it’s a boxer trait.

Sometimes, the only place to go is the closet.

Beau is a rescue dog. Honestly, she is the best dog I have ever had, and there have been a more than a few. I brought her home almost two years ago. The first year was a little rough, but so worth it.

As a rescue, she has a lot of idiosyncrasies. With time, she has gotten more comfortable and less tightly wound. The evidence of her struggle during her formative years is always evident, though. The kitchen is a difficult place for her. Everything is terrifying. I love being in the kitchen, so we have bad days sometimes. Usually, she sits on the couch watching me or curled up on my feet on a comfy rug.

Last week, I was cooking dinner in the kitchen like I usually do. Beau was sitting next to me on her rug. Her back leaned up against my calf. I had one of the bottom kitchen cabinet doors open to grab a pan out; it was situated in front of my legs. The stove made a clicking noise every once in awhile, which is usual. This day, the clicking noise triggered something in Beau. I felt her start to shake. Her shaking became stronger over the next minute. She stood up and pushed her way between my legs crawling into the cabinet. I stopped everything I was doing to sit down next to her.

Giving the camera her signature side eye.

I put her sweater on her because it helps make her feel safe. I held onto her tight. Like in people, when there is weight pressed on her body, it help calms her anxiety. She likes to be in enclosed spaces where nothing can sneak up on her. As someone with PTSD, I understand this more than she knows.

She crawled out of the kitchen cabinet shaking violently and ran to the closet. She crawled as far into the corner as she could under all the clothes and on top of the shoes. Luckily, I managed to get the shoes out from under her. We sat there for twenty minutes. She shook and shook and shook. She cried. I held onto her. She was so scared. She even peed a little; it’s not abnormal during her severe anxiety attacks. It breaks my heart every time. She was curled into my body as far as she could. We both cried in our own ways. Her breathing started to quicken, and I had to help slow it down. Her shaking slowly eased up.

When she started to pace, I tried to find somewhere else we could sit down. She was not comfortable anywhere in the house. So we went outside. Beau needed to run the shakes off. So we ran and ran and ran around the apartment complex until her tail started to wag again.

Her anxiety attacks have become a rarity now. They happen every few months instead of every few days. They don’t usually last more than a few minutes, but this one was a particularly bad one and lasted over an hour. I still don’t know exactly why it happened because nothing was out of the norm.

Beau is such a sweetheart. She is the light of my life. Sometimes, all I can do is hold her and love her as she fights her own demons. As a rescue and a former abused animal, these things are part of our life.

Tag: Healing

In Seven Days, I Turn 30 Years Old

Closet Anxiety Attack

xoxo,
Beau and RaeAnna

xoxo, Beau and RaeAnna

xoxo,
Beau and RaeAnna