emotional support animal

darnold1975

Careers We Respect From a Distance: Why This House Will Never Enter the Human Backdoor Olympics

“After today’s conversation, I’ve decided that if life ever assigns me a job involving the human backdoor, I will simply log out of the simulation and let my cats take over my identity.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re cleansing not just the room, but the entire situation that led us here in the first place. The energy was so chaotic, even the ancestors peeked around the corner like, “Now who summoned this foolishness?” And the cats scattered like I’d announced surprise bath time. Which tells you everything you need to know about the spiritual turbulence we were dealing with.

While standing there in a cloud of sage and cannabis. And trying to convince myself that adulthood is not just paperwork, mystery smells, and emotional turbulence. I learned something that shook my spirit straight out of alignment. Somebody out there chooses to become a proctologist. Not “falls into it accidentally.” Not “lost a bet.” Not “was assigned by a vengeful guidance counselor.”

Let me tell you what set off this whole cleansing ritual. I learned that proctologists. The real, licensed, tax‑paying adults choose that career. A human being wakes up one morning, stretches, yawns, and says, “You know what? I want to spend the rest of my life abyss excavating the darkest corners of the human situation. They don’t get drafted. They don’t lose a bet. They don’t wake up in a Saw movie and have to pick between that and dentistry.

No. They look at the buffet of human professions and say, “Yes. The canyon. The cavern. The forbidden hallway. That’s my ministry.” And listen. I respect them. Somebody has to do it. But it will never be anyone in this house.

Coco climbed onto the laundry basket like she was about to deliver a royal decree.

“Mother,” she began with the tone of someone who has never been wrong in her life. She said, “I do not even look at my own butt. Why would I volunteer to examine strangers? I am a queen. Not a Rear‑End Archaeologist.” Then she knocked over a cup to punctuate her point.

Piper pulled out her clipboard like she was conducting federal interviews.

She said, “Let’s review my qualifications. I’m good at surveillance, judgment, filing complaints, identifying your mistakes in real time. And documenting chaos for legal and spiritual purposes.

“Now,” she continued, “let’s review what I am not qualified for.” I am not qualified for tunnel exploration. Human cave mapping. Backdoor diagnostics. And anything requiring latex gloves. She looked at me over her glasses (that she does not own) and added, “And neither are you.”

Tinkerbell arrived late, loud, and ready to deliver a keynote address.

And while pacing like a tiny insurance adjuster preparing to deny a claim she said, “Every household needs boundaries. And the boundary we are establishing today is simple. No one here is going into the human abyss professionally.” She then knocked a plant off the counter. I assume that was her way of cleansing the space.

Let’s be honest. We are a household of snacks, chaos, and questionable decisions. We are not a household of brave medical back‑alley expeditioners. And we are barely a household of people who can schedule our own appointments. If someone said, “Dana, your community needs you to become a proctologist.” I would simply pack a bag and move into the woods. The cats would follow while carrying clipboards, snacks, and a list of reasons why this was the correct choice.

Coco had declared the entire topic unconstitutional. Piper had drafted a 47‑page complaint titled “Absolutely Not: A Household Manifesto.” And Tinkerbell was in the corner performing a spiritual audit to determine which one of us invited this energy into the home. And honestly? She’s right to ask.

We are a household of snacks, naps, chaos, and questionable decision‑making. But we are not a household of brave medical cave divers. We can barely handle a vet appointments without forming a support group. And the very idea of any of us voluntarily entering the human abyss? Coco said, “she’d rather get a job.” Piper said,  “she’d rather work retail.” And  Tinkerbell said, “she’d rather reincarnate.”

We salute the proctologists of the world. We honor them. We appreciate their courage, training, and their commitment to the human cause. We thank you for your service. But in this house? Absolutely not. Not today. Not tomorrow. And not in any timeline where Coco is in charge of HR. 

We will be over here lighting sage. Minding our business. And staying far, far away from the canyon of no return. By the end of this whole ordeal, it became painfully clear that me and these three furry unionized coworkers of mine are now going to have to schedule another therapy session. An emergency one, at that.

Coco needs to process the emotional violence of even hearing the word “proctologist.” Piper has to unpack the secondary trauma of documenting the conversation. And Tinkerbell? She’s already drafting a statement for the therapist titled “Boundaries, Backdoors, and Why My Household Must Never Speak of This Again.” Our poor therapist has her monumental work cut out for her.

And honestly, I’ll be right there on the couch with them. I’ll be clutching my emotional support iced coffee while explaining to our brave, patient and compassionate therapist how a simple morning spiraled into a full‑blown spiritual evacuation drill. We are not called to that ministry. And we will be processing the thought of it for weeks. And that, my friends, is where I set the mic gently on the floor. Walked away. And let the ancestors close the door behind me. Thanks for reading! And do what makes you happy. 

Affirmation: I am divinely protected from careers, conversations, and chaos that are not meant for me. My household walks in clarity, boundaries, and the sacred right to say, ‘Absolutely not.’

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Dual Diagnosis Awareness: The Emotional Block Party Happening in My Frontal Lobe

“My healing isn’t linear. It’s a Southern backroad with potholes, detours, and at least one possum giving me side‑eye. But I’m still driving.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just cleansing the room. We’re cleansing the entire diagnostic chart that tried to play me like a two‑for‑one special at the Discount Trauma Mart. We’re also cleansing the medical chart, the family gossip line, and the entire Southern belief system that still thinks “nerves” is a diagnosis. And “just pray on it” is a treatment plan.

Dual diagnosis is that special Southern casserole of “mental health condition” baked together with “substance use disorder.” And it’s served piping hot with a side of unsolicited advice from people who haven’t been to therapy since Clinton was in office. It’s the moment life says, “Surprise! You’re not just juggling one thing. You’re juggling two flaming batons while the universe yells, ‘Smile, sweetheart!’”

Dual diagnosis is like waking up every day in a body that’s running both a Windows 95 operating system and a bootleg Sims expansion pack that keeps crashing. It’s trying to heal your brain while your brain is actively filing HR complaints against itself. It’s the emotional equivalent of trying to fix the roof while the house is still on fire. And the HOA is sending you letters about your grass height.

And it’s that moment when life looks at you and says, “Oh, you thought you were dealing with one thing? Hold my sweet tea.” It’s the psychiatric equivalent of a potluck where anxiety brings a casserole. Depression brings a Bundt cake. And addiction shows up empty-handed but somehow leaves with all the Tupperware.

And the world? The world acts like you’re being dramatic. And the wild part? People act like you’re being dramatic. “Have you tried drinking more water?” Ma’am, I have two diagnoses doing synchronized swimming in my amygdala. Hydration is not the plot twist that’s going to fix this. “Have you tried yoga?” Ma’am, I have two diagnoses doing the electric slide in my frontal lobe. Yoga is not going to stop this internal block party. 

Beneath the jokes, dual diagnosis is real, heavy, and often misunderstood. People think it’s chaos. But it’s actually survival. It’s resilience. It’s learning to hold two truths at once like “I’m struggling and I’m still here.” It’s learning to treat yourself with compassion even when your brain is acting like a committee meeting where everyone is yelling and nobody brought notes. It’s learning to say, “I deserve care.” “I deserve treatment.” “I deserve to be taken seriously.” And most importantly, “I am not a punchline. I’m the whole damn story.”

Down here in the Deep South, dual diagnosis gets wrapped in a layer of cultural seasoning nobody asked for. Aunt Linda whispers like you’re contagious. Cousin Ray offers you a beer because “you look stressed.” And the church ladies add you to the prayer list without asking. Right under “traveling mercies” and “unspoken.” Meanwhile, you’re just trying to survive the day without your brain throwing a surprise block party.

Dual diagnosis in the South also means navigating stigma with the grace of a cat on a freshly mopped floor. You’re trying to get help. Half the town thinks therapy is witchcraft. And the other half thinks medication is a moral failing. Meanwhile, you’re over here doing the emotional equivalent of rebuilding a transmission with a butter knife and a YouTube tutorial.

Dual diagnosis awareness is about reclaiming your narrative from the people who oversimplify it. Misunderstand it. Or try to shame you for it. It’s about saying, “Yes, I’m dealing with two things at once. And I’m still out here living. Healing. And occasionally thriving like the chaotic miracle I am.” And yet, here we are. Still showing up. Still healing. Still lighting the charcoal and sprinkling the sage like we’re about to summon the ancestors and the insurance company.

Dual diagnosis doesn’t make you broken. It makes you bilingual in battles most people will never understand. And if anyone tries to minimize your experience? Tell them this, “Baby, I’m not dealing with too much. You’re just underestimating my capacity.” Thanks for reading! And keep searching for answers.

Affirmation: I honor every part of my journey. The messy, the miraculous, and the medically complicated. All of it proves I’m stronger than the storms I’ve survived.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Cat’s Meow

“One small cat changes coming home to an empty house to coming home.”

 –Pam Brown

The last few months has been about change.  These changes have been both externally and internally.  Moving back to my hometown has been difficult coming back to very vivid memories about my abuse.  But I’ve also gained a healthy relationship with an animal that, for the last few months, has been just what the doctor ordered.  Coco is my cat that I adopted a few months ago.  I have already written about her in an earlier post titled Yay Team Coco!!!  So, this is not another introduction post about her. 

This is a post, however, that is about things that I’ve noticed about her and us as we learn how to function as a team.  It has also taught me how to work better with my system and to have more patience while we continue to heal emotionally.  Coco is my “ride or die” companion and has brought me a big helping of love in a way that has made me flourish amid all the growing pains.  Nothing upsets her more than me crying.  She’ll pace around me meowing until I let her know, in some way, that I’m ok.  If I’m not ok, she’ll walk up to me knowing that I need to pick her up and to get a hug in a way that only she and I connect emotionally.

One of the many hurdles I’ve had to overcome in therapy is doing something as simple as picking up the phone and calling my coach when I need help.  After seeing a very abusive therapist for 2.5 years, being able to make a phone call was monumental.  I do, however, remember a time when sending a text was next to impossible.  I don’t pick up the phone very often and make that call.  But sometimes is better than no times.  I credit the relationship that Coco and I have built together with the ability to learn to trust again in different areas of my life.

Coco does have her cuteness ways about her that I’ve noticed.  There was one day when I was going through more moving boxes and I opened the box that had all my stuffed animals.  One by one I tossed them on my bed paying very little attention to any particular one.  I threw the box out and went on about my way.  A little while later I look to see that Coco had one in her mouth carrying it across the room.  It was a homely looking bunny that had suddenly become her personal stuffy.  And oh, how she loves her bunny.  More than once I’ve caught her sleeping with bunny with her paw gently securing her by her side. And She will also take the time to groom bunny as well. 

Most of the time it’s me and Coco having conversations about what she needs to quit doing and developing her cat manners.  This is what we work on until she decides that a break is needed from watching the outside world.  This is when she jumps in the crate covered by her favorite blanket and takes a much-needed nap complete with bunny in tow.  And when therapy time rolls around her job is to be close to me in whatever way that looks like.  And for me…. I keep putting forth the effort to continue getting better knowing that sometimes it takes passing an emotional kidney stone to make that happen.

#thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Yay Team Coco!!!!!

Yay Team Coco!!!

“Until one has loved an animal a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”
–Anatole France

I’ve taken a little break from writing these past few weeks. The last couple of posts were prepared ahead of time in anticipation of knowing that a break in my life was just beyond my sight. And again, I was right. Sometimes things just go wrong no matter what all you attempt to do right. Not long after I had written the post, Her Name Is Marley, things would take a sharp turn south. Marley and I had been bonding and we were bonding tightly. She was cute, sweet, and cuddly. My days of having a sweet kitten in my life were many years overdue. She made my heart smile. But there was something hiding from me, Marley, and the doctors. Marley was sick in a way that I couldn’t love it out of her no matter how much we both wanted. Being sick with intestinal worms and low blood sugar were just symptoms of a much bigger issue. Within a two-week time period that was costly both emotionally and financially we were hit hard. And my little Marley was in the fight for her life.
I couldn’t have asked for more of a very caring staff from the local veterinary office. Marley, more than once, would lay almost lifeless in my arms while the tears streamed down my face hoping that my breaking heart would somehow fix the issues at hand. I could hear the concern in each one of the staff’s voice every time, I would call to check on her. Then suddenly, she appeared like nothing was wrong. She was also about half the size of a normal kitten her age. Within a couple of days, she was in the condition of being nearly dead. The cycle was gut wrenching and incredibly tiring. More than once I was up all night with Marley providing care and just making sure she would make it through the night. But she was miserable from her daily fight for life.

As a pet owner, your mind and heart can make you question humane treatment versus a sometimes-selfish want to keep your animal alive. I had finally come to the time when I asked the doctors, “How much do I need to continue to put her through?” They wanted to take her home to observe her condition closer before giving me any kind of answer. For the weekend, she went home with them and I took my concern and exhausted mind and body to bed for a little respite care. And as the cycle would again repeat itself. Fluids, glucose, and other medications were just prolonging the inevitable and they saw it as well. Marley’s condition would never be ok. I was told that she had a condition with her liver that would never get better. I took my broken heart and prepared myself to be without her. I remember little about those last couple of days. I was truly heartbroken and didn’t want another animal. I just didn’t think that my heart could bare to love another kitten or puppy of any kind. My connection with Marley had been deep and I didn’t want to feel that ever again.

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The universe and my coach seemed to see how much I need the unconditional love like the kind freely given to us by animals. Somehow, they both seemed to try convincing and push me emotionally into just giving the idea some consideration. I was mad at them both. I resigned myself to the thought but decided that I would not actively look for a kitten. If I were to reconnect, a kitten would just have to show up in my life. And that’s exactly what happened.

A litter of kittens had been found under a house and the momma cat had been shot and killed. A good Samaritan took the kittens to the vet and they were looking for homes. There was only one female and she would be mine. I couldn’t believe how big she was. She was normal size for a healthy kitten. Nevertheless, she seemed to pick up right where Marley’s love left off. It took her a couple of days to realize that she could safely be a kitten around me. And it took me a couple of days to realize that she would love me if I would let her.

One of the issues I have is allowing others to love me. The many years of abuse and love demonstrated the wrong way has caused me to put up emotional walls around my heart. I’ve found that love coming from some people has conditions. And what I’ve needed for many years is to be shown and taught the concept of love after abuse. And this little kitten that I fought so hard to not find appears to be just what the therapist ordered. For me, the connection with animals has always been easier and safer than the connection with people.
The first hurdle in our relationship was to give her a name that was meant for her. I watched her for a few days while also searching through lists of names. A 5-year-old alter kept shouting her obligatory pleas to watch one of her favorite children movies by Disney. And the title that also allowed her to keep part of a connection with Albuquerque and the Hispanic culture was Coco. This little kitten seems to look like a Coco to me. I have battle wounds from our many hours of playing. And my heart bares the pawprints for every minute she’s loved me through my tears and wounds that are and are not seen.
Every therapy session she’s close to me and usually sleeping at my feet with her paws touching my foot. She seems to understand that her job is to be by my side when my many tears fall. And so far, her daily work opportunities have been plentiful. As my heart continues to heal and the growing pains continue to hurt, we continue to be a dynamic duo. The pieces of my puzzling life are still being found.
#thispuzzledlife