I wrote our names on my ceiling and now the house isn’t even mine.

I packed up my stuff into boxes, one by one, and loaded them into the truck outside. My once bright purple walls were now a pale white color. All of my drawings, my pictures, and my decorations, were all put away. And I left the thought of us inside of the house, driving away to never occupy it’s walls once again.

I can only imagine what the new owners would think, of two peoples names written just above their daughter’s bed. Some how, I find comfort in them painting over it, closing the chapter even further.

However, I cannot lie. Some days, I drive by that house. Looking into the windows of my old bedroom, where I first fell in love, where my first heart break was, where I grew up running around with my friends, and the first place that we lived for several years consecutively. It was the house that built me.

Even if I could go back to that house, I wouldn’t. The ghost of the old me haunts it, she walks around the halls and lays in her bed writing happy things. She has no troubles, has all of her friends, and smiled every day, never knowing the trama, crippling illness, and betrayal that she had waiting for her just a few years later. She is my innocence.

And if I couldn’t hold onto her, I hope that someone else can.

I am a shelter dog, do you know what that means?

I could have wander in from the streets, surrendered here by my owner, or seized from my previous home.

You stare at me from the other side of the kennel. Look at my bed and cozy blanket, my toy half chewed in the corner. This is my home, for now, at least, that’s what my handlers say.

They tell me that I’m cute, take me to lunch sometimes, and spoil me rotten with treats. But at the end of the day, they turn off the lights and say, “maybe tomorrow baby”, give me a head rub, and leave with sad eyes.

Every day, I get to see new faces. They walk up and down the aisle looking at all of us. Poking their fingers inward, wanting to be loved, licked, or to connect.

Sometimes we jump or bark, eager to socialize, begging for attention. Maybe we cower in a corner, growl, and are afraid of human hands who have not been kind to us in the past. Few of us are quiet, unamused, or bored. The longer you’re in the shelter, the smaller the walls get around us, and all we dream of is running through the grass – free.

I wish I could tell you exactly where I’ve been or where I’m from, that I enjoy fur friends or children to play with, but my handlers will tell you what they’ve learned about me since I have arrived.

I could be high energy, bouncing off of the walls. I could be low energy, wanting to curl under a blanket and cuddle all day.

Perhaps I’ll love kids, running around with them, maybe eating a sock or two along the way. Maybe I am unsure, afraid of kids or don’t know how to handle them that small.

I could love dogs and want to run around and play tug of war. I could dislike dogs because I was once used as a weapon or maybe I never learned proper socialization.

I am not perfect, I may have to pick up a few skills or learn a few things along my way.

Where ever I came from, whatever I like or dislike, I am a shelter dog who is in need of love, a family, a home, patience, and freedom. I may have been lost, but you found me.

I sat there, holding your hand and listening to the machines steadily help you breath, and everything caught up all at once. The tears were hot streaming down my face and my breathing was rigid, and I couldn’t leave your side.

Open your eyes. I begged silently because I didn’t have the courage to say the words out loud. Your fingers were curled in mine, freshly blue from when I painted them to pass the time. A simple twitch came now and again, each time I watched you more intently.

I never left the room, except to bawl in the bathroom and curse on the roof. It did not seem fair, that bad things happen to good people. I patiently waited to wake up from this nightmare, but the days dragged on.

They told us that she wasn’t getting better, yet we should be thankful, she isn’t getting any worse.

I’ll cry for her, I’ll cry for her siblings, and I’ll cry for the poor plow driver. He tried desperately to clear the streets during a storm, and the snow, it kept coming.

Open your eyes. I wished to see her beautiful blue eyes again, and hear her laugh. Her laugh was something I hadn’t heard in years, something about growing up and moving away makes you forget how important those little things can be.

I’ll get down on my knees at the edge of the bed near nine o’clock, when visiting hours are over. I’ll hold her hand, clinging to it as if her life depended on it, and I’ll pray.

I’ll pray for her strength and stubbornness, to put up a fight and heal so that she’d return in a few days time. I’ll pray to see her again, to hear her laugh, and to hug her and have her hug me back. I’ll pray for my family, her mother, her sisters, her brothers.. to make it through this just as she would.

Open your eyes. So that, we too, can open ours as well.

———————————————————————

My cousin, Sallie, sixteen years old, got into a car accident February 12th, 2019 and is in critical condition. Due to a snow storm, the car that she was in lost traction and she got injured.

Please send prayers and positive thoughts for my family, thank you.

Today, I caught myself singing in the shower.

Yeah, It doesn’t seem like a big deal, but it is.

Truth is, I haven’t been in sync with my body for a few months now, suffering from depression, most things look like a shade of black to me. It’s something that I have been working on, and excelling. Every day when I look in the mirror I recognize more of myself.

I am becoming more and more public about my mental health, after being silent on it for so long, it began to feel like a dirty secret. When it is not shameful to have a mental disorder, they are as common as an actual cold. Everyone in their lifetime will experience depression, anxiety, and panic.

Singing in the shower is a small victory, but I will take it. A sweet, sweet victory – yeah.