The below was first posted on my personal FB page on August 31, 2022.
Happy belated National Dog Day!
Max has been in our lives for more than a year now, but it feels like he’s always been here. And though I was never looking for a therapy dog, he took the role upon himself. He is now one of the best friends I have in my healing journey.
My PTSD manifests itself in ways that I am ashamed of. I don’t let the shame get in the way of trying harder to heal and to do better, but nevertheless, I know and accept that the ways in which my PTSD bursts out of me at times are unacceptable. Unacceptable as a wife. Unacceptable as a Christian. Unacceptable as someone who wants to be and should be a decent human being.
My greatest source of shame is my anger, which has several stages, and all of those stages tend to stem from physical fatigue, mental fatigue, and/or triggers. At certain stages, I’m still in control of my anger and I can take steps to make sure that I don’t lose control. However, there are times that it goes to a red zone.
Albert has told me before that I look possessed in those moments, and “possessed” probably is the best word for it because my mind enters a completely different space. My thoughts are racing, but they don’t feel like they’re racing. I’m convinced that my racing thoughts are “the truth,” and I’m often trapped in the past and all I see are the traumatic things that have happened before and I just want it to end, just want to prevent it all from ever happening again.
And then a switch turns on, and I’m in the red zone. I’m breaking things. I’m being abusive to Albert, the most precious and awesome human being to walk into my life. Rupi Kaur once wrote, “The abused and the abuser. I have been both.” And yes, I have been both. I am both. It’s a truth that I hate, and I wish I could tear it all out of me.
So, what does all this have to do with our beloved Jindo mutt, Max? Well, during the times that I’ve entered the red zone and have had shouting matches with Albert or become physically violent, our dear Max, without any training or prompting whatsoever, has stepped in to save the day.
There have been times that I’ve tried running out of the house at night, and Albert will grab my purse or my arm to prevent me from leaving. What results is a violent tug of war. And what does our brave Jindo do? He runs over to us and licks our hands (usually me first because he wants me to calm down the most). He’ll cautiously step in between us to try and separate us and looks at us with that sad look of his.
It breaks me every time he does that. He’s just an animal, and yet I can see the plea in his eyes. How awful am I being that even an animal thinks it’s too much? I usually sink onto the ground at this point, and brave Max will stick his head into my hands and keep nudging until I pet him. And if I could give him captions, he would be saying, “See? Isn’t it nice to be calm? Isn’t petting me so much nicer than fighting? This is nice.” And he’ll go to Albert to ask for pets then come back to me and keep asking until I’ve calmed down.
If I’m starting to get riled up, Albert makes Max go to me (or “sends him into the warzone,” as we like to call it afterwards). “Go to Mama,” he’ll say. “Go to Mama.” And our brave little medic charges into the room and demands pets. If I’m too depressed or angry to pet him, he lies down next to me, always facing the door as if to guard it, and doesn’t leave.
Sometimes he doesn’t try to break up the fight because he’s too scared. He’ll stare at me, completely frozen as I scream and rage. His eyes are huge, and his body starts shaking uncontrollably. Sometimes, his mouth falls open and he looks like he could be ill. It breaks my heart when he does this too. Am I so frightening that I can make an animal afraid of me, a dog that could maul me if he so chose? Am I really scaring something that has claws and fangs? The thought snuffs out my anger like a sharp puff of air against candlelight.
It can be hard to believe people when they say you’ve lost control because you’re so convinced that you’re right and because you’re so scared. But animals don’t lie. They can’t. They don’t even have that capacity. They can be shrewd, but they can’t formulate any covert, malicious agendas like humans. So when Max, in his own doggy way, says that it’s enough, I know that it’s enough. He’s telling the truth. He can’t help but tell the truth. He’s a dog, for crying out loud. And sometimes it’s this truth that helps me crash land on planet Earth again.
I’m so grateful God gave this furry white doggo to us. Max is the first dog I’ve raised, and I didn’t quite understand why dogs were called “loyal” and “man’s best friend” in the past. I always considered these cliches to be inaccurate exaggerations conjured up by dog lovers. But I cannot deny that Max is loyal and that he is one of my best friends. He’s not a human being, but I still have a deep relationship with him in a weird, human to animal kind of way. He doesn’t run from me at the first sign of anger like a lot of humans have and like so many other kinds of animals would. (I mean, can you imagine a cat or a bird doing what Max does when Albert and I argue?)
He is loyal, and he is our dog. And I’m very grateful that he is.
I love you, you dumb, illiterate tail wagger.