My life as a rescue dog

This would be accurate if I had friends. Or a friend.

I've begun to see myself as a rescue dog. Bear with me. This actually makes sense. No, I'm not an actual dog, but I do bear a lot of the same scars and history as an abused dog that finds a new home (which I haven't yet, but I'm trying). Add to that some of my behaviors and vulnerabilities, and it's really the same challenges a rescue dog has. Apparently, trauma translates well across species.

Normally, I wouldn't joke about suicide, so I won't. I'm not joking. It's been something I've wanted to do most of my life, say, 35 years. People always gang up on those who take their own lives, saying they're not thinking of those they leave behind. You're absolutely right; they're not thinking of anyone but themselves. Imagine pain so intense, pervasive, and constant the only plausible solution is taking one's life. You cannot see beyond that kind of pain to anyone else's possible trauma. All you want to do is stop hurting. I've been there. Now imagine a determination to live after you reach that plateau of pain. What happens to you then?

That's where the rescue dog thing comes in. Dogs can't commit suicide. They just go on being damaged, traumatized, hurting. They need special care from a committed owner who understands their unique situation. Depending on how bad the neglect and abuse was (and I consider neglect a form of abuse), the animal may never fully recover. But I've seen tremendous healing in my life, so chances are I will fare better, if only by the grace of God.

No, this isn't a cry for help. I don't want to kill myself right now. Relax. 

How am I like a rescue dog? It depends on the dog's history, of course. Lots of rescue dogs have the following symptoms: intense fear, unpredictable aggression, separation anxiety (which is common with dogs anyway, as many owners don't realize they are pack animals and they aren't meant to be alone — ever), being overly submissive, resource guarding (i.g., hoarding things, mine, mine, mine), etc. Basically, it takes some of a dog's natural proclivities and amplifies them. It makes them more basic and less civilized, wilder. If you've ever read The Call of the Wild, that's probably helpful in understanding how that happens. So, too, is trauma dehumanizing and abasing. That's the purpose, really. It's meant to keep a person down, less than human, where they are always less than other people. This is my life. This is how I see myself. This is what childhood abuse (or any abuse) does to people. It strips you of your humanity. 

The road to recovery is long. It's life-long, unfortunately. I don't intend to make it that long, that's why I've turned toward God for healing. And I've seen significant progress. But there are some important things I have to be careful about. One of the most significant is to avoid any situations where I may be retraumatized. That means I have to limit my time with people who have traumatized me in the past, most notably my ex-spouse and family. That's hard when I work with both. So, I've adopted an attitude of thanksgiving and also forgiveness. Those are constant, ongoing processes. I have to stay on top of that. These people will never change. Forgiveness allows for people who will not or cannot change, as the thing that changes is me, my heart, my attitude, my life.  

For those around me, patience is key. Healing can be slow. They simply do not understand, and that's good for them. If they did understand, it would mean they had experienced the things I experienced. I don't want that. It also means I have to be patient with myself. If I can't deal with something today, maybe I can tomorrow. It takes a lot of energy just to do common tasks sometimes, and I get frustrated with myself. I shouldn't do that. There is a period of extreme sensitivity for anything that smacks of trauma or past experiences. That will pass. Just trying to act like a normal person living normally is hard for a person with a background of trauma and abuse. You always waiting for the next shoe to drop. Trust me, it's humbling to watch other people deal with complex problems with bravado while I cower in the corner when faced with simple situations. But such is the legacy of abuse.

I also have to seek out safe environments, places where I know I'm okay. There is no one to watch out for me, so I have to do it myself. I have to see the red flags for what they are. If I see danger, I have to avoid that situation. Rescue dogs benefit from a stable environment where they can learn trust. The same can be said for me.

Then I have to relearn how to live. I have to adjust to a safer world even though I feel unsafe. I have to allow good things to happen to me. I have to welcome change. That's hard. I'm wired a certain way and changing that is difficult. There was a time when someone did something very nice for me. I remember walking around in a daze for weeks afterward, completely blindsided and distraught. Mind you, this was something fortuitous and kind. There was nothing bad about it. My mind simply could not comprehend genuine kindness. I am endlessly capable of dealing with bad circumstances and pain, but the moment someone does something wonderful for me, I fall to pieces. I simply cannot fathom it. It's out of my realm of experience. This paragraph right here explains so much about me. If you don't remember anything else about me, remember this paragraph. Retraining myself to accept positive and healing circumstances and good situations is a considerable challenge. My mind wants to revert to what it knows, and it doesn't trust good things happening. 

If you really want to extend this metaphor, there are a lot of resources you can look up for dealing with rescue dogs and their unique challenges. A lot of it applies to me, as well. Knowing these things about myself has been helpful because I need to work with myself to effect positive change. Since I don't have an owner (okay, not in this realm, at least), I can only depend on myself to stay safe and sane and to grow. I have to trust my instincts, but my instincts often lie to me. It's hard. This is why I pray so much. God can lead me through this maze of confusion. Even when something doesn't make sense, if it's what He wants me to do, I will do it. I have to trust Him. He will never lead me into harm's way. Ever. (To clarify, I'm not talking about those times when we are called to sacrifice our lives or persecution of some sort. Those are special circumstances God prepares us for.) It may feel uncomfortable, but it's never a harmful situation. It may be hard, but it's for the best. That's the reason I have hope for the future.

Thanks for reading.