We got a bunny last week!! We were planning on getting one for Easter because my parents have had some baby rabbits the last little while and my little girl started saying she wanted a pet rabbit every time we saw them on FaceTime. But when we went to get one just before Easter, they were ALL GONE EVERYWHERE. They were sold out from every store that would possibly have them. So, the Easter bunny came a few days late.
He is SO fluffy and has the funniest personality.
As I held that bunny and pet it I thought about ESAs: Emotional Support Animals.
I have owned 3 different pets since I was diagnosed with depression in 2017. None of them were specifically acquired to be emotionally supportive, but they have all, in their own way, helped and occasionally hurt. Here are my current observations.
Sassy:
Sassy was a cute, teeny tiny rescue we bought when we bought our first house. We were finally out from under an apartment contract and that was the first thing we wanted to do with our freedom! She was really small, practically potty trained when we got her, and very snuggly. She didn’t love kids, but she didn’t hurt them either so that was good. Because of her size our two year old could handle her on a leash.
When we took long car trips Sassy sat on my lap. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my panic attacks were not nearly as frequent when she was on my lap. In fact I caught myself as one was just beginning and consciously pet her to get out of it. It was AWESOME! Nothing I had tried up to that point had really worked to tame the attacks.
Gabe:
Gabe is a cockapoo we got from a friend of mine dealing with her own intense struggles. They had just lost a dog that had become family, she was newly pregnant and very sick, and let’s just say- POTTY TRAINING A DOG IS NOT GOOD FOR MENTAL HEALTH. So in an effort to help her, and because that face, we took him in.
We were all really excited, but Sheld was ecstatic, it felt like Christmas for him.
At first things DID NOT go very well. I too was newly pregnant, and sick, and Sheldon was really busy with school, and we were renting a house with all carpet, no fence, and a busy street in front. Potty training, and training him in general under those circumstances ended up being very stressful for me. He never came when we called, he peed on EVERYONE who came to the house, and he barked at anyone who came by. I had heightened anxiety and frustration.
After a couple months though, a visitor mentioned to me how good of a dog Gabe was and for the first time I saw it! He was good! We had finally potty trained him, once he got out when we were gone and we came home to find him on our porch-he isn’t a runner, and he has always been very tolerant of the two toddlers harassing him.
When my depression got the worst he always knew. He’d follow me around and lay at my feet or snuggle up next to me. It is incredible to me how they just know! His nearness often brought me comfort. It always helped to ground me when things got too crazy. He is such a fun, quirky, and loyal companion. He makes me laugh, protects the home (or at least thinks he does), and is always close by when I’m down.
Cookies:
Meet our newest friend! This is Cookies, who was first named Rabby, and then Cotton, but finally Cookies. He is HILARIOUS. Maybe all bunnies are this way? But watching him explore our house and clean his face and hop has brought me way more joy than I would have imagined! Seriously, even just watching him eat makes me smile.
Also, petting a rabbit is incredibly calming. I have not had very many bad days lately, which is awesome, but I could feel a difference just holding and petting him. There is something to calming a bunny down-you can’t help but be calm.
Once in your arms, as long as they feel safe, they don’t try and jump away. They just sit there and take all the love.
Also, his care regimen is surprisingly simple. We fill his water once a week, and his food every couple days.
He doesn’t love us yet, so that isn’t particularly helpful emotionally, but we just got him. Also, I am allergic to him but it will just help me vacuum a bit more!
Conclusion:
The best emotional support animals are bunnies. But a potty trained dog will do the trick!
This is a re-post from several years ago. The original is here.
Six weeks ago, we found out I was pregnant. We were thrilled, you see, because we had been planning on a baby for some time now. As a matter of fact, last August, I had decided to make some changes in my life and really prepare myself for this baby. I have had trouble with bad hips in past pregnancies and so I decided to make a real effort to exercise regularly to try and strengthen myself. I wanted to be ready to have another little one. I exercised faithfully, six days a week from that time on, rarely missing. This pregnancy was going to be different. I was feeling so good, and had made so much progress, that I decided to run a 5k- pregnant or not. I signed up for one that same week we found out we were expecting. I was ready.
For some reason, though, during the next couple weeks, I began to doubt. I didn’t understand it, but I was unable to pray for our baby and its safe arrival in our family. I began to bleed a little here and a little there, and resigned myself to the probability that we would miscarry and lose the baby. And so in anticipation of the miscarriage, I decided to lie low for a couple weeks. I had one miserable day of cramping and headed to the doctor. It was soon confirmed by an ultrasound- there was no baby in the uterus. It was only a matter of time before I would lose the baby and bleed everything else out.
I mourned. I was upset to say the least, but understood that it was all part of the plan for us. I had experienced this before. My prayers were now that my body would be able to take care of what it needed to take care of, so that we could try again. And so I waited.
February 26th I began to cramp again. Only this time the pain was so intense that I could not get rid of it. I talked with Matt and we just didn’t know what to do. Finally, I called Mom. She thought things sounded suspicious and recommended that if I had any question, just to go in to the ER. And so within the hour Matt and I made the decision, and we were on our way. We went through a series of tests and another ultrasound. Within a short time I had another IV placed and monitors placed on my heart and lungs. By this time, I knew something was seriously wrong. We were told that I was being prepared for surgery for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. At that time I had no idea what that exactly meant. My greatest fear was that it meant I was never going to have another child. I was terrified and could only ask Matt to call our families and ask them to pray for me. I was too shocked, and it hurt too much to cry. Matt gave me a quick blessing and I was whisked away.
Upon waking from surgery, I learned that I had lost 1 ½ liters of blood into my abdomen from a ruptured pregnancy in my left Fallopian tube. In order to save me, they had to remove my Fallopian tube. But my life was spared.
It is hard to describe what has happened in my mind and heart the last three weeks. The mourning process has been much more difficult than I thought it would be. For weeks, I could not even really cry because of the pain. In the moments when I was alone, or when just Matt was there, my thoughts would turn to everything I had lost, and my heart broke. But I just kept telling myself to be tough, just hang in there, and I’d be OK. Mom and Sam, and Rachel and Dorian were so helpful the first week of recovery. I felt so much strength from the prayers of the family, even though some were so far away. Recovery was slow, but it was coming. When I was finally able to have a good cry, I felt so much an increase of the love of my Father in Heaven. Little by little I began to see with new eyes. I am healing a little at a time, and the spirit is strengthening my heart.
I still feel like I lost so much that day. I lost my health and strength that I had worked so very hard to gain over the last six months, I lost a baby, and I lost part of myself. I still have moments when I think about it and weep. My heart still breaks. But I was given LIFE that day. I was spared. I now cry in gratitude.
This week we decided on a change of scenery and took a trip to Southern California to stay with Matt’s brother. I sang my babies to sleep one night, and as I was going through a whole bunch of our favorite primary songs and hymns my very favorite came to mind- “How Great Thou Art”. I have sung this to my children and my sisters more times than I can count. (My sisters lovingly call it the “fall off the mountain song”) It always reminds me of my loving Great-grandma Evans.
But as I sung this to my little ones this week, I felt like everything came into focus. As I looked at my precious children, I had an overwhelming love and understanding wash over me. I was reminded once again that HE, our Heavenly Father is in charge. He knows exactly what we need to pass through. He loves us more than we can understand. His greatest “Art” is us– who we are becoming. He gave me a second chance at life. Life, that is so full of so much joy. Life that is full of sticky fingers, slobbery kisses, noisy dinner tables, and sweet bedtime prayers. Life that is full of families that love each other enough to pray, fast, and spend time together. Life is his greatest art and so I hope that I can proclaim “How Great Thou Art” for the rest of my days and bring honor to HIM who has given me everything.
I love running. Like a lot. When someone suggests exercise, running is my go to. I spent a whole bunch of money on a treadmill last year and was SO HAPPY.
But guess what! In my mind, I have never “run” more than a mile and a half. I have run a mile quite a few times, but that is usually when I give up mentally.
So… do I really love running? I don’t know. But this post isn’t about my opinion.
It is about a mind-blowing conversation I had with my husband.
He IS a runner. He won 2nd in his age division in a race he didn’t train for. He is tall, lanky, full of energy- the perfect combination for a great runner.
When we got the treadmill, I started running my signature 1 mile, and I would get hurt. Shin splints, pulled muscles, weird spasms. My husband would keep telling me to take it easy and go slowly. But to me, if I took it slowly I felt like a failure. What sort of person who loves to run can’t even make it a mile?
This is what he said: You need to learn that you can stop and walk if you need to.
You mean… if I run 1/4 mile, walk 1/4 mile, and then run 1/2 mile I can count it as a mile? Does that mean I can “run” a 5K but walk some of it if my body is about to give out or I feel a shin splint coming on?
Then it dawned on me:
SLOWING DOWN WHEN YOU NEED TO DOES NOT MAKE YOU A FAILURE.
I don’t know why I always figured I had failed if I had to walk. I would push and push until I hurt and then HAVE to walk which led to discouragement, anger, low self-esteem, and ultimately NO progress.
That is pretty dumb now that I think about it.
But don’t we do that ALL the time in so many other parts of our lives? How many of us just go and go until we crash? Trying to do everything we think we need to. Do we spend all our strength and energy to reach something that maybe we aren’t ready for? Or maybe it’s not the right time? Or isn’t necessary at all?
We need to slow down. Listen to our bodies, our minds, our spirits. The most progress will be made if we take life at a reasonable pace.
It seems apparent to me that there is a WHOLE lot more mental illness now than there used to be. I am sure some of that is a result of more visibility for the topic, but after reading this story I think perhaps one reason the increased instances of PTSD are due to the medical advances that save souls who have traveled to the edge of mortality. We survive harder things. This mom I met as a missionary and have looked up to from day one. She is strong and beautiful and has always just exuded joy and love. Here is Sydney’s Story:
The Source:
I feel like there are a lot of factors that brought on PTSD, anxiety, and postpartum depression; just as there have been many factors that have brought on my healing.
There was definitely a big event that triggered the PTSD, but I have always mildly struggled with anxiety. Plus, I had never had much experience with newborns so I was terrified of anything happening to my son. These things culminated and resulted into me being a complete mess but it was a time of growth and learning. Just as a warning- my story gets graphic in the delivery room so feel free to skip it.
It started when I was pushing, delivering my baby boy. The pregnancy and most of the labor had gone smoothly and I was so excited to meet my baby boy! As I was pushing, the midwife decided that I needed an episiotomy. As soon as the cut was made, my son came through insanely fast. Turns out the episiotomy should have been made a lot earlier and my son’s head was also in the 99% percentile. Not only was there a cut from the episiotomy, but I also ended up with a third degree tear, a peri-urethral tear, and an artery had torn so I began bleeding out right away.
(Thank heavens I felt strongly prompted to get an epidural when I did, if I did not I feel like the mental scarring would have been a lot worse.) My boy was suddenly on my stomach and I was so happy! But I couldn’t get him up to my chest. I asked myself: “why did they put him so low?” I noticed his umbilical cord was pretty short… “why were they not asking me to push again to deliver the placenta?”
After the initial moment of pure bliss of admiring my baby, I took a look around to figure out why they still weren’t asking me to deliver the placenta. I wanted to hold my baby closer, and it was annoying that I couldn’t. There were a lot of people in the room rushing around that I did not notice before. There was a lot of blood on the floor and even on the wall behind the midwife. The midwife was shaky and I heard her tell her assistant “I cannot find the bleeding”. I looked at my mom (who is an RN and worked in deliveries at the time) and my mom was sheet white. I asked her if everything was okay and my mom nodded and weakly said yes. I knew right away she was lying. I heard someone tell me (which after all the chaos I now realize it was the Spirit) “just let them do their work. You cannot feel anything so you just enjoy your baby.”
I got to enjoy my baby and look into his eyes and relish in the bliss with my amazing and supportive husband. But still, I could not bring my baby closer to me. I finally heard the midwife on the phone with someone in the OR saying “there is a torn artery and we cannot stop the bleeding”.
I felt myself growing weaker and weaker. I started getting scared and immediately thought that this might be the only time I would ever have with my baby. I asked my husband for a blessing. One of the nurses in the room heard my request and went to ask for another priesthood holder to help my husband with the blessing. But I asked my husband to start the blessing anyway because I felt so weak and started wondering how much time I had before going unconscious. I do not remember the blessing, I just remember two things that happened after the blessing: I heard someone tell me once more (again, it was the Spirit) say “just take this time to enjoy your son.” (Which kind of scared me cause it made me speculate on how much of “this time” I had left. ) And I also heard the midwife on the phone with the OR saying “we have found the bleeding and the bleeding has slowed down considerably.” That seemed like a miracle in itself.
Since they found the bleeding and the midwife had the damaged artery clamped with her hand, they had me deliver the placenta and they cleaned up my son and weighed him. Shortly after, a second priesthood holder came in and helped my husband with a second blessing. After that blessing, I felt that everything would be okay. The midwife had to keep the artery clamped down for over 40 minutes while they waited for the surgeon to come in to stitch me up because the damage was so great. Clean up and stitching took over 2 hours. I lost a lot of blood and had a lot to recover from. I couldn’t recognize my body anymore.
They took me to the bathroom to clean me up. The nurse told my husband to wait with me in the bathroom while she helped the other nurses with the soaked sheets. As my husband was trying to help me in the bathroom, I passed out on the floor. I woke up looking at the bathroom ceiling, the nurse holding my legs high above my head and another nurse near my head. DeGrey was next to one of the nurses, trying to help. Panic set in. “WHERE IS THE BABY? WHO IS WITH THE BABY?” They reassured me that he was swaddled and in his crib sleeping. I did not believe them. I told Grey to sit with the baby. If I could have gone from fine to bleeding to death in a matter of minutes then that meant my helpless baby could die any second- at least that’s what my mind convinced me to believe for the next year.
The nurses, as well as everyone else, would mention how scary the last bit of the delivery had been and told me that I went through a lot. I was told that once I got home, I should not leave the house for at least 3 weeks because if anything were to happen like a car wreck, I would not have enough blood to survive.
Recovery:
For the next couple of weeks I did not sleep- even when my son was asleep. I would stare at my baby the entire time to make sure he was breathing. My mom and my husband would force me to sleep and would sit and watch the baby sleep so I could sleep. They became my greatest supports. It was really hard when my mom left for home (she and my dad lived out of state at the time.) The next several months I struggled mentally worse than I ever had in my life.
My mind started messing with me. I would wake up screaming, scouring through the sheets and blankets convinced that my son was tangled and trapped in the sheets- when in reality he was safely sleeping in his crib. At one point if I saw a spider (we lived in a basement at the time) I would not smash it because I was convinced that the spider’s life force was somehow connected to my son’s and if I killed the spider then my son would die, too. I would have nightmares that I died in delivery and that I could not be there for my son. I would have nightmares, or just be convinced while I was awake, that my son would stop breathing and would die.
When I started getting my period back, the cramps would send me into panic attacks because it reminded me of when I was in labor and would make me re-live those scary moments and “what if’s” in the delivery room. Intrusive thoughts came all the time, whether it was about my own demise, my son’s demise, or thoughts about harming my son or myself. I would never ever act on those harmful thoughts, but the intense and dark thoughts would come so often and were so disturbing. I had lost my mind. I feel like I cried every day for the first year of my son’s life.
Healing:
I got blessings what seemed like every day. I began seeing a therapist. A big turning point was when I was in a community play about 6 months after my son was born. That helped more than anything because it got me feeling like I was myself again. The character I played (her name was Ida) was not afraid to take risks, she loved and enjoyed life. She was so brave. Ida became an inspiration to me and I was the one who brought her to life- just like my son was an inspiration to me and I was the one who brought my son to life. That play helped me feel like a mother.
Creativity has always been a healing factor in my life, and it still is. I began drawing again after that play and made creativity a priority. The second year of my son’s life became easier although panic attacks happened still. I tried to have more meaningful scripture studies and prayers. I prayerfully made changes in my life to forgive things that happened to me in my past. I went back to therapy and ended up taking medication. I wrote in my journal and began seeing patterns in my life that God has given me and helped me through.
Healing is not a linear thing, there are ups and downs and lessons to be learned.
Now that my son is approaching his 3rd birthday, I finally feel like I am back to normal. Well, not back to normal, but that I have grown and healed into a better person. I have learned (and continue to learn) to trust my Heavenly Father to control things that I cannot, to trust that my son will cry or signal me for his needs, and to trust myself and my motherly instincts. Although I still have fears of having another baby when that time comes, I know that I have gained the experience and tools to help me through more challenges in the future. I have a wonderful support system, talents that I love to focus on, the rewarding feeling of being a mom, and my Savior- Jesus Christ who has taken this journey with me every step of the way. Healing is not a linear thing, there are ups and downs and lessons to be learned.
My healing has taken a lot of time and a lot resources, but it has made all of this a very long yet sweet journey so far that I hope can tell to help others some day.
The first panic attack I ever had started because my niece fell and hit her head on my mom’s piano bench. That’s right– hyperventilating, tears, a had-to-hide-in-another-room panic attack because a toddler tumbled over.
I should’ve known then that the journey to heal emotionally was going to be much longer than my physical journey.
Within a year my cast was removed, I could lay down again without my ribs or back hurting and even had a living baby. My physical body had done a great job healing. But here I am, 5+ YEARS later and only a couple months past my last panic moment (I say moment because when compared to those first ones, it was much less severe).
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is something I never thought I would have. I live a fairly normal, boring life. But I was in the right (wrong) place at the right (wrong) time and my life was changed forever.
There have been SO MANY TIMES that I thought I was “over it.” I have even gone months without incident.
Then, what seemed to be out of the blue, I would have one episode, then another and another. This would spark feelings of despair: would I ever be better? Why is this happening AGAIN? IT HAS BEEN 5 YEARS. I shouldn’t be dealing with this. What is my problem?
But what I have learned is that PTSD doesn’t just go away because my experiences don’t just go away. Living a life, coping with PTSD is a journey. I will always be a different distance from the accident and the way I deal with the PTSD will change with that distance. Sometimes it doesn’t affect the way I live at all! Referring to my previous post: that book is on the shelf where it should be.
But no one who struggles with PTSD should be surprised, discouraged, or feel like a failure if it comes back out again. It’s the name of the game, and even just acknowledging that can help us cope.
It has been my goal to read scriptures before doing any work and a couple days ago I had just sat down and pulled out my scriptures when my thoughts began going everywhere. Somehow, once again, they turned to my nursery (why is it always the nursery? No clue).
I looked at the bookshelf there and thought about where it had been just a couple weeks ago–up against a different wall acting as a platform for all our junk. The whole room was a disaster: garbage on the floor, boxes of things we just didn’t want to go through, and everything we didn’t want our company to see. Chaos reigned.
Then I saw it for what it is today and felt gratitude for the progress. The room is still far from where I hope to get it, but it has become such a different, new room. I can vacuum! The bookshelf is now home to important papers, pens and pencils, a sewing machine, etc. and the floor is no longer a dumping ground.
There is more order.
That order didn’t come from throwing everything away. We were able to completely remove a lot of stuff that we had been carrying around for a while: unnecessary papers, broken crayons, scented wax cubes we’ve had for five years, etc.
However, some stuff in there now was a part of the mess before but has been put in a place where it can belong without adding to chaos.
I soon caught my mind wandering and went to the task at hand: reading my scriptures. I looked down and read a verse that reminded me to “remember what the Lord hath done.”
Instantly, I saw that room as me. I remembered the awful, chaotic, full of junk state my mind was in. I thought of the panic attacks, the feelings of anger and despair and loneliness. I thought of the darkness of the depression and the suicidal thoughts.
But I don’t live in THAT room anymore. With help from some incredible family members, doctors, therapists, friends, and most of all my Savior, Jesus Christ, I have been able to organize some of that mess. I have been able to throw away unnecessary expectations that caused unneeded stress and anxiety.
There are things I cannot throw away, and will never be able to, but I’ve got a bookshelf now with some experiences put where they need to be, some forgiveness finally picked up off of the ground, tools to help me keep it organized.
There is still a LONG way to go, but I am SO grateful for that glimpse— to see light again, and to finally be able to recognize growth. I am most importantly thankful for a Savior that bought that bookshelf and takes away the garbage.
