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When My Mental Illness Was at Its Worst, Adopting a Dog Saved Me

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It was winter of 2017.  I had just dropped out of graduate school in New York City. Cold and jobless, I had just moved back to Georgia into my parents’ basement at 25 years old. I didn’t want to accept that what was happening at the time was a combination of bipolar disorder, life circumstances and a whole lot of unresolved trauma.

• What is Bipolar disorder?

I could hardly remember what happiness felt like. Against the backdrop of my depression, the concept of happiness felt more like a dream than a memory. I was so lucky to have a best friend at the time who had four dogs. They really seemed to bring her happiness. I never grew up around animals, but I was ready to try adding some of this happiness into my life. So, there I was on Petfinder (a database for rescuable animals all over the country) at 4 a.m. when I stumbled upon Hardy: a 9-year-old diabetic poodle-schnauzer. Hardy’s past owner lost her son and moved overseas, and Hardy was left at the rescue. I felt connected to that lady during my own time of loss. Loss of the life I envisioned I would lead. Loss of my pride, not being able to make it in NYC. I felt powerless, and suddenly, there was Hardy on my computer screen.

The next day, I went to the shelter. “Are you sure you have the finances to support a diabetic dog?” asked the lady at the rescue.  They weren’t sure if we were a good fit. But I was certain, and a week later, I ended up finding a job. The special on dogs that week was $14 for Valentine’s Day. So, I adopted my furry little valentine.

Hardy and I got to know each other very well those first few weeks. We bonded instantly and he became my shadow. He’d skip along and follow me everywhere around the house. We were inseparable. Some of his quirks became apparent when we encountered other dogs on walks. Hardy barked wildly at the sight of them. Of course, at 12 pounds, he wasn’t threatening anyone. Over time, I figured out the best thing for Hardy was to avoid overly crowded walking areas with dogs. I learned, like humans, dogs have unique personalities and needs that should be respected.

Adopting Hardy was the point my life turned around. Practically overnight, I got a reason to wake up in the morning. Countless times I remember walking Hardy with my best friend and her dogs. Hardy had a way of grabbing people’s attention.

“Look at his cute lopsided haircut.”

“Did you see how he sniffed that other dog? She was so sassy.”

“Which character from ‘Parks and Recreation’ do you think our dogs would be?”

We were able to talk on these kinds of topics when otherwise, all I felt like I had to contribute to conversation was how shitty I was feeling.

Every day, we took our life-saving medicine — insulin for Hardy and an antipsychotic for me. We both had our unique needs. In my eyes, we were a match made in heaven. The enormous struggle of getting out of bed each morning wasn’t just a victory for me, those tiny triumphs against depression were for another living creature, too. There is no cure for bipolar disorder, but damn, Hardy sure came close.

Nowadays, Hardy lives with my little sister and her husband in Georgia. Because I live in Chicago now (and because of Hardy’s aforementioned apprehension toward other dogs), for his sanity, as much as it breaks my heart, living in a less congested area is best for him. Not a day goes by I don’t miss him, and I force my sister to send pictures of Hardy on the roughest days. I understand, though, because these quirks are what makes Hardy so special. I still have a deep gratitude for Hardy. He’ll never know this, but in many ways, he saved my life. Hardy is magic. He was my unofficial therapy dog. And maybe, someday, I’ll get a tattoo of him, too (sorry Mom).

Original photo by author

Originally published: April 2, 2020
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