I’ve heard it said that dogs gradually begin to imitate their owners - usually in personality, but sometimes in looks. You know those side-by-side images of people who look just like their furry friends? Hilarious.
Anyway, I think my dog has clinical depression.
Artemis hasn’t been eating a whole lot lately. When she was just a wee pup we had to buy her a slow feeder bowl because she used to inhale her kibble like Kirby and it was concerning. Now she’ll take a nibble here or there with some prompting but she often just lays by her bowl staring at me with a look that says “I’m trying my best, pops”.
Even before her self-imposed hunger strike, Artemis has had a somewhat melancholy nature. She was a relatively rambunctious puppy along with her brother, but somewhere along the line two roads diverged in a Yellow Wood and she took the path that led to her laying on the couch staring at me with her sad eyes while we watched ‘The Last of Us’. Her brother, on the other hand, took the path that led to him spitting his slobber-covered wishbone into your lap and demanding you play with him at all hours of the day. Two puppies, two very different temperaments. And also two different owners. Artemis is my own, Beau is my roommate’s.
Artemis is very sweet, she enjoys the company of people, but she’s nervous most of the time. She moves through life like she’s afraid she’s going to do something wrong. Sometimes it breaks my heart.
There’s a part of me that worries I’m partially responsible for Artemis’s moods. Have I been a poor dog owner? Do I not walk her enough, or play with her enough, or positively encourage her enough? Do I use her as a soothing tool for my own emotions too much? Does she pick up on that?
Have I given my dog my clinical depression?
I was officially diagnosed with depression in late 2021, but I had unofficially known before that. I wont delve too deep into my neuroses in this week’s words as I’ve already done so Here, but its something I’ve accepted as a part of myself - just like my third nipple and the way I tell people I wear size 10 shoes, but I’m actually a size 9 on a good day.
This isn’t something I’m bitter about. I’m not a victim of my depression. It’s objectively a neurotransmitter imbalance in my brain that sometimes prevents me from getting the happy chemicals. Sometimes I just wake up in the morning and I feel really sad, lost, and maybe a bit hopeless. It’s like a sudden rainstorm. You look up at the sky and you can intuitively understand that the Sun is up there somewhere, you just can’t see it until raindrops stop blasting you in the eyes. The best you can do is find somewhere dry and maybe cancel your afternoon plans.
At this point in my life, I’m able to keep myself from getting wrapped up in a bad day. I can objectively look at my thoughts and say “Hey, I’m not actually awful, and my life is actually pretty good, and I’m probably better off not making any life-altering decisions in the next 24 hours or so”. And that works for me. Now. But I spent a lot of my life unable to be objective about my feelings.
I’ve had a lot of very painful days, some of which turned into weeks and months. I’ve spent a lot of mornings staring at my bedroom ceiling convinced that the whole world would be better off if I didn’t get out from under the covers that morning. I’ve spent hours of my life having internal conversations with a voice that sounds like me, and does a convincing impression of me, but isn’t me. It’s main purpose is to get me to hate myself as much as it hates me. I can’t fucking stand that voice. As I’ve grown I’ve learned how to shove his scrawny ass into a shoebox and stuff him into the back of mind. But it took me years to realize he was all talk and I didn’t need to let him push me around like that.
Anyway, I think my dog has internalized some of my depression.
And if my dog, who doesn’t (as far as I know) speak any English, is picking up on my depressive tendencies, how will my non-furry children (who I’m hoping will speak English) fare any better?
There’s a lot of things about having kids that scares the hell out of me. There’s the loss of freedom, the financial obligations, the having to socialize with other parents that you have nothing in common with because your kids like each other. Those things are scary enough.
But how in the hell does one get over the fear of passing our neuroses onto our children? What if my kid grows up and becomes JUST LIKE ME?
Because here’s the thing; if I could cure my fourteen year-old self of the depression and anxiety he was going to deal with throughout his formational decade I probably wouldn’t do it. I’ve dealt with a lot of internal pain and struggle. There were times I didn’t see a way through the darkness. But those struggles made me who I am today. They made me more empathetic, those times trained me to be resilient and focus on what I could control. I am who I am because I walked through the fire.
But the idea of allowing someone else to do the same gives me goosebumps.
And I think that’s the paradoxical challenge of being a parent: you want to protect your kid from pain, but if you protect them from too much pain they’re going to be a shit adult.
You can’t shield your child from the world. But just because you couldn’t, you didn’t do the wrong thing bringing them into it, I guess.
Both of my parents are probably going to read this and have something of an emotional response to my description of my ongoing neurodivergence, but I’m positive neither of them are going to regret bringing me into the world because of it.
And I’m sure that’s how I’m going to feel about it someday. I won’t know until I get there I suppose.
In the meantime, does anyone know of a vet that prescribes Doggy Prozac?