Well, I’ve done something that backfired a little. Something we probably all know we shouldn’t do. I compared myself to others. I compared my disability to others’. What is wrong with me? 😞
I started at the service dogs info session. Is my depression and anxiety worse than hers? Do I deserve a service dog as much as he does? Am I faking it? (Yes. After firmly establishing that I have had depression every day of my life since early childhood- I was actively suicidal for 6 months at age 9- I still asked that question.) Should I just suck it up and forget this whole thing? (Again. This is also a dumb question. Sure, I have lived in much, much darker stages. Yes, this is a fairly bright season of life, but even now, I’m still strangled by fear and doubt and… 😑)
I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have tried to measure my paralysis and fear and breakdowns and everything against other people’s issues. I knew better, but I still did it.
And today, I was watching a YouTube video, and someone mentioned “fake service dogs.” For context, I want to make a few things clear:
- This person has a traditional disability, one that has used service dogs for many years.
- They have been respectful, assertive, and polite in all their videos that I have watched. They honestly seem to want to make the world better by sharing their experience with others and answering questions.
- They never ever said what they meant by this term (i.e. that my disability isn’t real because it’s invisible). I’m only reacting because I’m insecure.
- They also have acknowledged invisible disabilities in a different video. There is no evidence that they do not believe in mine.
- Some people buy vests and put them on their untrained pets. There are fake service dogs out there.
So… I guess you could say that I was set off by their comment, exploding because I’m so scared of people telling me that I’m exaggerating my struggles that my defenses are being triggered by indirect criticism, without any verification steps to determine if it even was criticism.
I’m insecure, so I panic. I’m overwhelmed, so I lash out.
I feel awful, like I’m screaming inside.
It’s paint. Just paint. But if you see blood instead, you understand the feeling and intensity of it.
And now, she’s pawing at my hands, trying to convince me to play with her. I suppose I’ll let her win. I need it, after all.
Good girl, Dora. Good girl.