a rushing river with white rapids and pine trees on the banks

Turmoil

Well, my family is going through some big changes, I left my job, I’m doubting my medication choices, and I have no idea how to write about any of it. I want this blog to be helpful to other people, so I try to at least be informative and destigmatize conversations about mental health by being open with you. Over the last few months, though, I just haven’t known how to do that.

In all of the turmoil with my family, I’ve done a lot of thinking about growing up, boundaries, and how to deal with a changing perspective. The prospect of writing about it has been bumbling around in my brain, but I haven’t yet figured out how to write about it in a generic way so as to respect my family’s privacy. When I think about writing about other things like my job search or my depression, I don’t know how not to simply complain about them – how to add something more valuable. I miss writing on here, but it’s so hard to restart that I’ve been overwhelmed at the thought of trying.

For honesty’s sake: I’ve been struggling with my mood. My last ketamine infusion was not helpful, I secretly stopped taking my medicine for a bit (don’t do that), and I’m awash in feelings about finding employment – being a burden, feeling underprepared and incapable, the pressure of time, the stress of having no income, etc.

Maybe this short post will help me break through the inertia and get moving again. I have an old draft that will soon be relevant due to an upcoming positive change(!!!), so I might publish that soon. Ketamine is tomorrow, and that will also be altered, so I might have something to share about that in the coming days. Thanks for sticking around or for reading for the first time; I appreciate all of it and I hope that I’ll get back into the swing of things here going forward.

Genevieve ❤

Moose Revelations & the Magic of Yes Day

In an effort to help me become more easy and breezy, Fridays have been dubbed “Yes Day” by my therapist. I’m supposed to not hesitate when I’m faced with a decision on Fridays – just say yes. I mentioned this in a recent post, in which a therapy session combined with ketamine saw the creation of No Nap Day, which was slipped past my steel sieve mind on Friday under the guise of a Yes Day opportunity. Just kidding- I knew exactly what I was agreeing to.

I had good reason to say “yes” to No Nap Day. My Yes Day adventures have already resulted in positive experiences, so it only follows that I should keep it up. I’m not generally a spontaneous person. I rarely do anything on a whim, and sudden changes to my plans make me anxious. Sensory processing disorder makes me strongly prefer routine over spontaneity. I know that I like all of the sensory aspects of my familiar routine; anything new is overwhelming and could be very unpleasant.

Then again – it could be wonderful, and by saying “no” to new things, I run the risk of missing out on some great stuff. Take last month, for example. I go hiking with my mom every week. We usually pack lunch, make frequent stops to look at wildflowers, and generally have a wholesome nature experience. I usually enjoy these outings a great deal, but on this particular day, I was tired. The fresh air and pre-hike coffee did not perk me up, and I trudged up the mountain with heavy boots.

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We reached the first of two lakes about 2 miles up the trail, and as we rested on a flat boulder, we discussed our options for the rest of the day. My mom wanted to continue on to the second lake and the glacier, but I was reluctant. Heading back to the car and going home sounded pretty good to me, but it was Yes Day, after all. So, I said “yes” to continuing on. Stella led the way up the trail, and although I was still tired, we got into our usual pace before long.

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Stella was awed by snow in July, we humans were awed by the views and the beautiful waterfall, and I managed to be distracted from my fatigue enough to enjoy myself. We almost made it to the glacier, but our second wind was fading in earnest, so we took in the view and then headed back down the trail.

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Going downhill is easier than uphill in some ways and much harder in others. Upon reaching the parking lot, we hurried to the car and got the AC going. Stella had her head out the window as we turned onto the road, and we all enjoyed the bliss of sitting down.

Almost immediately, we came upon a car stopped in the middle of the lane. We waited for a few seconds, and then my mom said “Maybe there’s a moose!” I admit – I scoffed.

“They’re probably looking at Google Maps, trying to figure out if they’re going the right way.” I said. We chuckled a bit as we crawled forward, until the driver of the stopped car waved us around them. As we passed, I looked to the right and blurted “There IS a moose!”

“What?! Really? Should I…”

“Yes, back up!” I urged her. We rolled backwards until we could see it. An enormous moose (all moose are enormous, I suppose) was standing calmly by the road. He was munching on the thick vegetation around him, ears flicking lazily at the gnats.

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His antlers were velvety and magnificent. They’re such strange-looking adornments – one might even say goofy – and yet they’re so sturdy and solid. They make an effective reminder that moose are very, very, very strong animals. This one was content to carry on chewing, paying no mind to the gawking humans. I think that’s part of what makes them so interesting to watch; they’re completely unbothered by activity around them. They’re not as skittish as white-tailed deer, not as pugnacious as, say, a brown bear. They just sort of…stand around. Not to say that they won’t charge and cause you serious bodily harm, but this one’s general demeanor was one of complete and utter boredom. He was so unimpressed with us that it was almost like he was thinking “Yeah, yeah, snap some pictures. Now go home, kids. I have important vegetarian work to do, here.”

My mom and I rode that excitement all the way down the canyon. Along the way, it occurred to me that I had Yes Day to thank for it. After all, we would not have seen the moose if we had turned around when I first wanted to. Instead, I said “yes” to the rest of the hike, putting us in exactly the right place and time to witness that moose’s dangly neck thing (I now know it’s called a dewlap) waggle above the leaves. Moose are so silly, and yet so distinguished. Truly a creature of contradictions.

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Noticing “Good Enough” During Depression

I recently drove into the mountains with my mom for a relaxing day in the woods. A few years ago, forest fires left blackened, branchless trees standing on the mountainside. From the winding highway, we could see large swaths of charred landscape, but up close, new growth has begun to fill in the gaps. Long grasses and delicate wildflowers are recolonizing the ecosystem, and stands of young aspens have already claimed their soil.

I love the Rockies; it’s where I grew up, and it’s the first environment that nurtured my love of nature. I hope that no matter how depressed I get, I’ll always have an appreciation for the outdoors. On this particular outing, though, my enjoyment of my surroundings was dampened.

We found a set of campsites and picked a spot between them to use as our hammock/picnic place. The scent of warm pines and soil enveloped us while we ate our sandwiches among the bearberry carpet. I looked at an interesting circular lichen and listened to the insects buzzing nearby. Later, in my hammock, I watched a curious hummingbird zip around our site. I noticed all of these things and recognized their loveliness, but was disappointed by the absence of contentment. The person I am at my core, unhindered by depression, adores that exact place with those exact circumstances. But the person I am today – tired and depressed – couldn’t help but think “I wish I were at home, taking a nap in my bed.” I wanted to feel peaceful there, but I was missing that easy contentment that happens when you have nowhere you’d rather be. Realizing that non-depressed me would have enjoyed the day much more was disappointing, which threatened to overshadow what small enjoyment I did get from it.

It’s important for me to get out of my usual routine when I’m depressed, mostly because that routine doesn’t consist of much. When I take the very small risk of leaving my house to do something theoretically fun, it could turn out to be terrible. Mostly, it’s mildly nice, and as my therapist says, “If it doesn’t suck, then it’s worth noticing. It might just be good enough.”

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Vertigo-Induced Panic is Terrible

We clambered into the car, half of the backseat piled with our stuff so that the dog could have the back. We’re all isolated these days, and since we were able and the infection data in the states we’d be in looked ok, we got on the interstate for a family visit (with careful precautions). Two months after the passing of my grandfather from COVID-19, the family was feeling the distance. We made it in 14 hours, a new record for the journey we’ve made dozens of times.

I’ve always gotten motion sickness in cars, so road trips can be a boring affair for me. Hour after hour, I look out the window, listen to music, and let the movement of the car lull me into a drowsy stupor. As a child on this trip, I would fall asleep for a while and wake to the car slowing down as we took an exit to a gas station or a rest stop. As an adult, I find it hard to disengage from the road; I’m always paying attention to the other cars and looking out for danger in our lane.

Traveling during a pandemic made us uneasy. We stopped as little as possible, only getting off the highway for gas and careful bathroom breaks. Few people wore masks, and we got odd looks and a wide berth on our way through the doors to the little convenience store in Nebraska. In Iowa, we took a side door past families eating at outdoor picnic tables, used the facilities, and beelined it back to the car. Illinois was busier, and by then we were exhausted. Despite spending the entire time sitting, long road trips are remarkably draining.

We left home at 5 A.M. and arrived at our destination at 8 P.M. After unloading the car, supervising Stella’s obligatory investigation of all smells contained in the house, and eating some real food, we each turned in for the night.

Coming from semi-arid Colorado, I’m unaccustomed to the humidity. I was instantly too hot under the blankets. After I threw off the covers, I tried to relax and put my sweaty discomfort out of my mind. When I closed my eyes, I felt the world moving beneath me — gently but unpredictably. I’ve had mild vertigo before. Boats, amusement park rides, and treadmills all produce a similiar feeling of unsteadiness for me. This, however, did not subside as my previous spells have tended to do. Instead, it only became more intense. I sat up and tried to take deep breaths through the rising nausea. The room was jostling around me, and I felt very high up on my bed. I slid to the floor and started to panic; it was only getting worse, and at this point, I didn’t think I could get up without falling over. Realizing there was no trash can in my room, I decided that I might have to throw up in the dog bowl. (Thankfully, that was avoided.)

In an attempt to convince my brain that my body was stationary, I lay flat on the floor, pressing my palms and heels against the hard surface. Truly panicking now, I took gasping breaths and tried to keep my gaze locked on something still. It was not working. I crawled to the wall and sat with my back pressed against it, crying, shaking, and trying to get my breathing under control. I felt like I was in a rickety wagon, speeding along a track while bumping and swaying dramatically. Even when sitting completely still and looking only at one point, the world around me continued to move.

I don’t know how long it took — I’m sure it felt like longer than it was — but the panic subsided and I eventually felt capable of making it downstairs to the kitchen. I sat at the table and looked at a spot on the tablecloth for over an hour. Slowly, the vertigo improved. Moving my head as little as possible, I got up to get a snack, hoping it would settle my stomach. I shuffled two small steps forward, then stopped to wait for things to slow down, then repeated as I moved through the kitchen and back to the table with some crackers.

Part of the anxiety came from the overwhelming disorientation, which then produced more anxiety because I instantly thought “how will I get home?” Sitting in a car for 14 hours created horrific vertigo and a subsequent panic attack, so the thought of doing the same thing a week later worried me.

Thankfully, our trip home was uneventful. I took Dramamine and we made more lengthy stops. I also hogged the front seat for part of the drive. The vertigo I noticed upon getting home was much less intense and didn’t stop me from swiftly falling asleep. Human beings are not well-suited to spending an entire day in a moving vehicle, but it was more than worth it to see family. Even with the masks, the social distance, and the little Lysol wipes wrapped around the serving utensils, we managed to fully enjoy our time together.

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Trying a Sleep Mask: The Ketamine Chronicles (Part 19)

While walking through the grocery store the other day, a cheap sleep mask caught my eye. My previous ketamine infusion, in which I was utterly entranced by a framed picture of what looked like a standoff between a wolf and a mountain goat but was really just a river and some rocks, piqued my interest in sleep mask-wearing. I grabbed the mask on a whim, intending to give it another try at my next infusion.

My first attempt to cover my eyes during a ketamine infusion was at my very first appointment. Not knowing what to expect and finding that I had never experienced anything like it, I was overwhelmed by the bizarre sensations. I remember the darkness behind the mask inducing a feeling of slow spinning, like turning a heavy stone on the end of a long, long string and then letting go. Soon, my head began to spin in one direction while my body spun in the other, and I took the mask off, preferring to keep my eyes open.

I hadn’t worn a sleep mask during an infusion again until yesterday. I brought my newly purchased satin mask, seemingly made for someone with no nose, and slipped it on just as the infusion started. My immediate reaction was “I don’t like this”. But, sensory processing disorder makes it hard for me to discern what exactly something feels like and if it’s to my liking or not. Therefore, my default is no new things ever. I decided to give the mask a few minutes, which I attempted to measure by the progression of songs on my playlist. By the time two or three songs had gone by, I had mostly forgotten about it.

At first, I was frustrated because nothing seemed to be coming to me. It was just dark. Gradually, subtle circles of purple and yellow faded in and out. I couldn’t tell if the ketamine was working yet or not, so I shifted my attention to my body and found that I was all stretched out. My feet were incredibly far away from my head, and the more I thought about it, the more I stretched. I got thinner and thinner, and I eventually was reminded of taking Flat Stanley home in elementary school. (Flat Stanley is a children’s book about a character who travels the world. As part of a literacy project, kids make paper Stanleys and keep a journal about his adventures, swap Stanleys with a partner via snail mail, then mail them back, often with photos of Stanley out and about.) I felt like Flat Stanley- like I had been rolled out with a rolling pin and then peeled back up. Briefly, I considered the strange photos that would result if somebody took me on their family vacation, this flattened-out woman waving in a gust of air, Little Timmy reaching up to hold my paper-thin hand while everyone says “cheese”.

Sometimes, the things I see in my ketamine infusions are bizarre or fantastic, and sometimes, they’re closer to real memories. After the Flat Stanley adventure, I enjoyed a slow-motion movie of my dog, Stella, running by me. We locked eyes as she rushed by, a moment captured in the dusty roll of fur on her shoulder and her tongue lolling out of the side of her open mouth. In slow motion, the prairie grasses waved lazily and Stella’s paws hung in midair, a snapshot of a great freedom gallop. I’ve seen such an image hundreds of times, yet my lucid memories never produce such a striking, detailed image as what I saw during my infusion.

My thoughts of Stella led me to a less pleasant memory. She killed a young rabbit the other day; I tried to stop her but was too slow. The weight of its still-warm body in my hands came back to me in my infusion. I looked at the delicate veins in its ears and a bit of fur stuck to one dark eye as I gently wrapped it in an old cotton t-shirt. Seeing it again during my ketamine infusion wasn’t disturbing, but it evoked some sadness and sense of wastefulness.

I only vaguely remember other images from this infusion- mostly measurement things like ticking numbers on a digital counter and tape measures stretching out. Overall, wearing the sleep mask made me much less concerned with time. I never have any idea how much time has passed, even when I try to keep track of how many songs have gone by. Usually, returning to the real world periodically reminds me that time exists, and I then wonder where I am in its course. But with the mask, I was just floating in darkness. I still don’t love the feeling of having my eyes covered, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. Occasionally, I considered taking it off but decided that lifting my arms would be too much effort. I did eventually sense that a good deal of time had passed, and I lifted a corner of the mask to peek out. Erin told me I had ten minutes left, so I leaned my head back and forgot all about time, once again.

I have not been doing well, lately. I tried to go off of one of my medications (with the OK from my prescriber), and it backfired tremendously. I’m back on it and hoping that things will return to how they were before I decided to go messing with my meds. Hopefully, this ketamine infusion will help me get back on track.

 

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Observations From the Garden

I got up at 6 and walked through my routine because that’s what I always do, depressed or not. I fed the dog, made the coffee, poured a bowl of cereal, and then stared into it while the dog did her rounds in the yard. But by 8, I was beginning to wonder why I ever got up in the first place. So, back to bed with the window open and my blankets pulled up to my chin.

Lately, depression has overtaken my days with sleep and restless boredom. What time is it? Doesn’t matter; every day feels like a week. At night, the anxiety comes. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. Or like I want to reach inside my chest and pull out my lungs, let them spin out the twist in my trachea. Maybe then I could breathe.

To pass the time when the sun is up, I move between sleep and hobbies. Sitting outside in the backyard, my sketchpad page is still blank. Pen or pencil? I pick up the pen but am unable to draw more than a few dandelions from the scene I’m observing. A flock of house finches has found our backyard – it’s more dandelions than grass, and they’ve all gone to seed. The birds are foraging, bobbing their heads and moving among the unmown grass. One finch struts up to a tall dandelion, and, with an almost imperceptible flutter, attempts to perch on its vertical stem. The dandelion head begins to bow to the ground, and the finch rides the bending stem to meet the grass. Foot firmly planted to hold the flower down, the finch returns to bobbing and pecking.

There’s a sound behind me, and I turn to see a five-foot garter snake glide through the raspberry bushes, following a taste in the air. A busy robin chatters while it gathers last year’s grape leaves for nesting material. Stella digs a layer out of the hollow she’s claimed as hers, then situates herself in the cool dirt she’s uncovered. A hummingbird trill draws near, then it whizzes by on its frenetic journey. Everything around me moves, yet I feel like I’m in stasis. Animals and plants follow their daily rhythms, foraging, hunting, racing the sun to get enough calories, and I feel disrupted – out of sync.

I don’t know how to fix it. Usually, I keep up with my treatments — meds, therapy, ketamine — and simply wait for it to pass. I use what coping mechanisms I can—preferably the good ones, and let the turning of the Earth carry me from one day to the next. This time, I can’t help but feel the uncertainty of the time we’re living in. The disruption is not just to my mind, but to the world. When will this sense of weightlessness, of falling through empty space be soothed? When can we once again feel the ground beneath our feet, knowing by its predictability that it is moving us inexorably from today to tomorrow?

Connecting During the Pandemic

As a highly introverted person, I didn’t expect social distancing to have much of an effect on my mental health. After all, I don’t get out much to begin with. But what I’m finding, and what I’m hearing from others, is that the few social interactions we introverts had prior to pandemic life were more important than we realized.

I’m starting to really feel cooped up. I miss my library, my dog park, volunteering with other humans, and not sucking air through a mask while I run. My world, small as it was, has shrunk. But perhaps more than the social isolation, it’s the uncertainty about when it will end. Before, I might have chosen to stay in, but it was a choice. Now, this strange, lonely way of life stretches on indefinitely. I’m feeling restless, anxious, and sad. I sometimes joke that I’d like to go live on a mountain by myself, and while I’ve always known that wouldn’t actually be good for me, it still sounds tempting. But now, the social interaction that used to threaten to overwhelm me is in short supply, and I’m finding myself a little bit lost.

Luckily, we have options for connecting with others from a distance. I’ve been enjoying video calls with friends, yelling across the fence to my neighbors in their backyard, and texting extended family members. We have social media, phone calls, blog posts, any number of ways to get in touch with people who are far away. Even when digital methods fail, there are still connections to be made at home, and creativity goes a long way.

Towards the beginning of the pandemic’s reach in the U.S., when schools were closing and people started staying home from work, some kids in my neighborhood took it upon themselves to spread some positivity. I stepped out the door with Stella’s leash in hand and headed down the sidewalk for a quick walk around the block. At my mailbox, there was a message written on the sidewalk in chalk. It said “keep calm” and had a pink heart and a blue flower next to it. It made me smile and, frankly, gave me some warm fuzzies. All the way around the block, there were short messages encouraging everyone to stay safe and some adorable drawings of flowers and butterflies. It was a great reminder that we are all feeling the stress of the pandemic in our own ways and in our own homes, but we can still find ways to connect.

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Close Your Eyes: The Ketamine Chronicles (Part 16)

“I think Stella is a bad influence” is a phrase I remember hearing Dr. G say during my latest ketamine infusion. Stella is my willful, independent dog who sometimes flat-out refuses to listen to me. In trying to piece together the events of my day, that phrase bounced around in my head without context. What had happened?

Apparently, I had refused to close my eyes. Dr. G repeatedly told me to shut them but dang it if that little glass dragonfly suspended from the ceiling wasn’t absolutely mesmerizing. I remember it glittering and moving gently while I stared. I closed my eyes eventually.

This infusion was different in a few ways. For one thing, it was a higher dose of ketamine paired with a sedative to make it less intense. I also am completely off of one of my mood-stabilizing medications, Lamictal, which can interfere with ketamine. Like last time, I took some Tagamet before my infusion to slow the metabolism of the ketamine and make it last longer. The sedative kept this infusion from being bizarre, or at least from me remembering any bizarre images I might have seen.

At first, I didn’t feel as deeply removed from the world around me as usual. This was deceptive, though, as I soon began to feel – as trippy as this sounds – like my being was shrinking into my body. Or perhaps like my body was expanding to create a shell around my consciousness. Things were happening in the room – sounds of typing and clicking, machines beeping, Dr. G telling me to take a deep breath (which I also did not listen to, apparently) – but they all seemed so far away as to be completely beyond my caring.

I opened my eyes periodically to see what was going on and usually got sucked into the computer monitor, which displayed a series of calming images of winter mountains. This is the danger of not wearing a sleep mask; when you’re hooked up to a ketamine infusion, EVERYTHING looks interesting and it’s incredibly tempting to let all of your automatic functions, like blinking and breathing, to be abandoned in favor of absorbing whatever magical thing you’re looking at. Nothing matters more than watching a snowy peak meld into a pine forest. Nothing.

It’s a strange experience to realize that you haven’t breathed in a while but not find that alarming at all. In fact, the longer I went without breathing, the harder it seemed to do. It’s sort of a heavy slowness that keeps me from breathing deeply. It has to be quite deliberate. I’ve had to be reminded to breathe during previous infusions, but a simple “hey, take a deep breath” always seems to break through my trance easily. This time, Dr. G repeatedly telling me to take a deep breath reminded me that breathing was a thing that people did, but I found myself reluctant to put in the effort. There wasn’t much that I cared about doing, and I remember thinking that I felt oddly cushioned against the ketamine.

Afterward, I tottered down the steps to the car and marveled at my mom’s apparent lightning reflexes as she drove us home. We stopped at the pharmacy and grocery store (a whole day of essential outings!) and I simply put my seat back and waited in the car while my mom went in. Unable to get comfortable, I flopped around until the car got too warm. I cracked the door open and leaned out a little to get some fresh air, resting my head against the door frame. I wonder what people in the parking lot thought. I was clearly not very with it and kept doing that embarrassing head-jerk that happens when you fall asleep sitting up.

When we got home, I crashed for several hours, then got up and walked the dog around the block. I didn’t think much about how I was acting until I passed a house and then noticed someone sitting on their porch. I had been walking a few steps, stopping for Stella to smell something, zoning out, then repeating all the way around the neighborhood. I have no idea how long I stood in front of that person’s porch with a blank look on my face, but it might have been much too long to look normal. Who knows- maybe they thought it was quarantine brain.

My MTHFR Gene is a Problem. Again.

You would think I had learned my lesson. Refilling my medicines is not something I find easy to do if a phone call is involved. I waited until the very end of my supply to refill my Deplin, and now, because of shipping delays, I’ve been without for several days. Deplin contains l-methylfolate, which fills a metabolic gap caused by a mutation in the MTHFR gene. Essentially, it helps my antidepressant work. Not taking my Deplin is what pushed my suicidality to new lows last year when I was hospitalized. It seems like I can feel my brain slowing down. I sleep all day like I’m hibernating in reverse by starting in spring. There is nothing to get me up except the dog, who stands by my bed and huffs at me, threatening to wake me with a full bark if I do not move. I accomplish the necessary and return to bed, already sinking into sleep. The occasional diversion brings some welcome entertainment, but it’s just a momentary distraction.

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Me. It’s me. (Unsplash user @successfullycanadian)

I took some time off of work when my grandfather passed away last week, but then I decided it would be more helpful to have something to do. So, I went back to work (which I thankfully do from home under normal circumstances) on Monday. Unfortunately, it’s shaping up to be a slow week, anyway. I suppose I should turn to hobbies to fill my time. I’m partway through a drawing that I promised to someone, but like many of us judging ourselves for not utilizing all of this time to finish household projects or write a sonnet or whatever we think we should be doing, motivation eludes me.

My shipment of Deplin is finally at my local post office and should be delivered by the end of the day today. It couldn’t come too soon. I plan to rip it open right there at the mailbox and throw one down the hatch. Well, okay, maybe I’ll go inside for a glass of water.

Blowing Bubbles with My Dog

Recent events have me, like many of us, feeling untethered. I was making good progress on my depression. I was getting out more, volunteering, talking to people at the dog park, all things I can’t do right now. It’s an additional element of the pandemic that sprinkles more discouragement on top of the physical and financial fears that so many are facing globally. So, while I don’t feel like I’m making much progress, I’m proud to say that Stella has come a long way.

When I adopted her, Stella had a LOT of fears. Bags of potting soil, kites, people wearing big hats, bicycles, snowmen, car rides, piles of rocks, the list goes on. For the most part, she’s faced them all. The neighbor’s animatronic Halloween decorations were just too much for her and we had to cross the street, but those are meant to be scary, after all. She tends to be afraid of things that look unusual (to her) or regular things that are in unexpected places. But as long as I put on an air of confidence and stroll up to the scary thing, she can pluck up the courage to approach and give it a good sniff. Our most recent endeavor has been… bubbles.

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At first, she was uneasy. She backed away from them and skirted around their path to get away. Then, she crept up to one that had landed on the ground without popping. She leeeeaned in close, and- pop! Her head flinched back and I could almost see the gears turning as she tried to comprehend where it had gone.

A few more bubble-blowing sessions and we have successfully conquered her fear.

She is now completely indifferent to bubbles. No joy or delight whatsoever. She can be so playful when it comes to other games, but she just doesn’t care at all when it comes to bubbles. They’re almost an annoyance to her, popping on her fur while she’s guarding the backyard. I mean c’mon, bubbles are the most frivolous, fun thing ever! Ah well, I’d call that at least halfway successful.