Every evening around 9 p.m., my dogs and I take our anxiety medication. When they hear me shake the pill bottle, they come scampering to the edge of the kitchen counter to sit and wait like the very good dogs they are.
The section of the floor on which they sit is just a hair outside of the actual kitchen, where they know they aren’t allowed due to the very real possibility of me tripping over them with something hot, sharp, and/or doomed to make a gigantic mess if dropped.
Trigger warning
Animal abuse (non-graphic reference) and domestic violence. I don’t usually do trigger warnings since my entire blog is trauma-themed, but I make an exception when it’s a pet.
This ban doesn’t stop them from leaning their noses as far over the boundary as possible every once in a while to check if the rules have changed and to indicate their displeasure with the matter. Little activists, just like their mom.
They have their own extra-large jar of Jif Natural peanut butter in their cabinet, because choosy moms choose Jif. Jif Natural is actually the second-best peanut butter on the market, though. The top spot goes to Jif Natural with Honey, but I can never find that in a big jar.
I recently began taking matters into my own hands: mixing my own Jif Natural with local honey. That cooking tip is just for you. Also, Jif, call me for sponsorship opportunities (but also please don’t be problematic).
I dunk the dogs’ specific spoon into the jar, always getting a bit too much because they deserve an extra treat. I mix the pill in, scoop the amalgamation off with one finger, and let the big dog (henceforth known as Big Dog) have it. I’ll never get over how adorable she looks every time she licks it off my finger. She’s pushing 11 but still acts like my little baby. We’ve been through so much together that it’s hard to think about without tearing up.
Next up, the little dog (you know the drill) clocks in for her essential duty: licking the spoon clean. Her tongue is an unstoppable peanut butter machine, and I don’t know how she has room for so much verve in such a tiny body.
Despite not actually needing anxiety medication herself, Little Dog is an integral part of the process. In other words, I can’t let her feel left out of the peanut butter routine, so we all pretend she needs her medicine as well.
Little Dog is truly the goofiest thing I’ve ever seen. Ever since she was a puppy, she’s regularly slept under the covers in my arms. Now that I work from home, she’s taken to pawing at my leg so I’ll roll my chair out from my desk and let her jump up on my lap. When she lays down on my legs she’s just small enough for me to tuck her under my desk, allowing her to nap snuggly while I type. Yes, it is indeed cute as hell.
When I look at my two doofy dogs, I’m filled to the brim with warmth and a feeling of safety and family. We lived through and escaped five years of abuse together. This is us in the part after. The part where we’re ok.
I wasn’t sure if iI would even want to share this, thinking it may just live in my drafts forever, but my medicine routine with the dogs is an intimate moment of overwhelming love that I get to have every evening. I never want to take it for granted, and I share it with you for an important reason.
I never would have been able to escape my abusive relationship without my dogs. Memories of seeing my ex hurt them, and feeling helpless to stop it, still make me dizzy and nauseous to reflect on too much.
The fact that one of my sweet dogs now needs anxiety medication, as much as they absolutely help and noticeably improves her quality of life, fills me with shame. I know she’s so reactive due to his abuse, just like I am. I try to be self-compassionate, because I couldn’t even help myself at the time. Yet every day at 9 p.m., an alarm on my phone rings to remind me that, for years, I failed to protect the little family that depends on me.
One thing I’m positive about is that in the haze of my abuse, my love for them helped me find a motivation to survive I wouldn’t have otherwise had. I owe them my life, and it fills me with gratitude every time I look at them.
As my relationship with my ex escalated toward its eventual breaking point, so did the abuses he doled out. The fights and other abuses became so routine it was rare to have a day of relative peace. I was more and more certain I wasn’t going to make it out alive, but by then I’d been trapped and traumatized for so long that it felt like walking around in a fog. I could barely function at all if I’m totally honest.
The constant onslaught of threats, lies, and manipulation stripped me of my sense of self-worth and left me feeling trapped and helpless. My life was hanging by a thread, poised to snap with the pop of one too many cheap beer can tabs.
Yet, paradoxically, prolonged exposure to such extreme stress also numbed me to the gravity of the situation. The relentless abuse had taken its toll, eroding my capacity to comprehend the imminent danger I was in. I’d become desensitized to the genuine threats that surrounded me, constant as they were. My hope was lost, somewhere in the dark.
The weight of the trauma I endured for so long left me emotionally and physically wrung out. The hopelessness settled within me, bringing with it a depression that made it difficult to summon the energy to fight for my own survival. Thoughts of self-preservation seemed muffled and unrecognizable. It felt like sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
In the midst of this stifling darkness, my dogs gleamed as beacons of unwavering love and support. Their unconditional loyalty provided a glimmer of solace amidst the chaos. They became my source of comfort, reminding me I was not alone.
One small way I always maintained a glimmer of fight in me is that even when I was in the deepest denial about the abuse, I never allowed my ex to spend a single dollar on the dogs. I kept every receipt, every vet bill. They were registered to the city under my name. My mom was even listed as getting them in my will. He would never in any way have any legal right to call them his.
Somehow, my deepest instinct to protect them overrode the learned helplessness I experienced around my own safety. I knew that no matter what happened to me, my dogs would never belong to him.
Just like I would never truly be his.
It’s through acknowledging and sharing these painful moments that I hope to shed light on the complex and multifaceted experiences of those who have experienced abusive relationships. No one should have to endure such torment, and it is essential that we, as a society, provide support, resources, and understanding to those who find themselves in similar situations.
We must give abuse victims that glimmer of hope, then follow through by supporting them as they take steps to escape their abusers and find safety. My enduring hope is for every victim to experience life after abuse; to experience the tranquil moments in their routine where they, too, can bask in the glow of the safety they’ve always deserved.
As night falls, I reflect on the way this shared ritual symbolizes a journey of healing and evolution for us all. The simple daily act of taking our medication together serves as a reminder of the battles we survived and the hope that flickers in the darkest of places.
We learned to fight our way into the light, cherish every moment of safety, and appreciate the unbreakable bonds that got us through.
So, we all take our anxiety medication.