Dog Brain

Recently I had a frank conversation with a good friend about suicidal tendencies. Before I go on, let me assure you that this week’s installment, despite its topic, will be more upbeat than not. Because I am happy and relieved to report that my own badly wired brain has been cooperating lately, has been so clear and relatively free of its usual anxiety and dark hijinks, that I’ve been rather astonished. 

When I spoke to my friend, I did not pussyfoot around. Sensing things were not going well, I was point-blank in my queries. Had there been a recent attempt? What was the current danger level? I offered no platitudes, no chin-up old chap, no reminder to hang in there baby because Friday’s coming. If there is any silver lining to living with—and frequently battling—a brain that has spent a considerable amount of time trying to convince me that going on is not the best choice, it’s that I can swiftly and deeply connect with the sentiment in others. I’m not afraid of suicidal ideation. I am downright confrontational about it. I don’t fuck around with small talk.

In nine days it will be the sixth anniversary of the death by suicide of my friend Jason. I’ve written about Jason a lot. There is literally not a day that passes that I don’t think of him. I remain very close with his mother. I often wear his clothing. I go see Nick Cave whenever he is in town, because Jason adored Nick and I can palpably feel his presence at these concerts. 

Memories of Jason always grow stronger as his anniversary draws near. It will never not be crushing that he left so soon, and how he chose to go. But I never felt anger over his departure. Because I never forget how hard he tried to stay alive. He tried everything. Therapy, exercise, medication, Luna his service dog (whom I adopted after his death), and yes, even electroconvulsive therapy. He desperately wanted to get better. But nothing offered long term relief. Ultimately the pain was too excruciating for him to continue on. 

I talked about this with my other friend, the one who is still alive, still trying. I asked my friend to please keep trying. It’s a conversation I have had with my own self many times. 

It’s been ten weeks now since Milo died. I am both surprised and not at how quickly I have adjusted to his absence. I’m pretty sure I understand why. Though of course I miss his physical presence—what a wonderful eighty-pound Little Spoon he was, and what comfort he brought me—I absolutely do not miss caring for a gravely ill being. I had grown so acclimated to accommodating his ever-growing list of needs—the daily medication, having to lift him up onto the bed and into the truck, having to perpetually clean up when he grew incontinent—I lost track of what a toll these efforts were taking on me. I can see now, far more clearly than during the last very sick year of his life, just what poor shape he was in. He was ready to go when he went. He was actually a bit overdue for release. The last words I whispered in his ears as he took his final breath were Mercy, Mercy. That was an irrefutable truth.

It occurred to me as I grieved him that between October of 2022 and Milo’s death, that I had, without break, cared consecutively for three dogs that had, one after the other, grown very ill and lingered before dying. Norris died of old age, but was too aggressively protective of me to be able to be safely euthanized, and it took him weeks to exit of his own accord. Thelma went next—she was so young but no vet could ever figure out what ailed her. I suspect longterm fallout from the Parvo she had as a puppy. Whatever the case, no matter what I did—and toward the end, I, vegetarian, ripped apart fresh cooked chicken with my bare hands to feed her—could stop the raging diarrhea that ultimately killed her. 

I recently realized that my mind is a lot like those sick dogs—entertains me, comforts me, fascinates me, and is my constant companion. My mind also succumbs to very bad spells and long episodes of illness during which it is prone to shit all over itself. These times, no matter how thoroughly I try to scrub it clean, there’s still residual stinky poo in the cracks. It’s so frustrating, so reminiscent of Peter Gabriel’s lyrics about growing so tired of working so hard for survival—I really do get so lost sometimes.

But, like I said, currently my mind is cooperating, in remission from its sickness. It is operating with a sense of steady peace that feels foreign to me. It’s very tempting to try to spot the other shoe and guess when it will drop. Instead I am striving to enjoy this turbulence-free stretch for what it is. I can’t know with certainty if my perpetual efforts to get and stay stable are what’s making things sunny these days or if, perhaps, it’s all just random, my brain wiring a freewheeling entity that goes in and out of the blackness regardless. 

I have no plans to test fate by giving up on the rituals to which I ascribe much of my mind’s current state. For even if I am only experiencing a placebo effect, let us not forget the proven power of the placebo. Or perhaps it’s less about the particulars of the rituals and more the fact that I engage in them routinely, that the rhythm of the routines is the thing. I learned a lot about routines from living with dogs, which I began doing in 1997. Having to tend to their routines helped me establish more of my own. And this is how I finally learned that my mind is always in a better place when living with routine.

Here are my routines:

• Meditation: 20 minutes daily every morning, non-negotiable. NEVER miss.

• 10,000 steps: Daily most days.

• Green Smoothies:  Juiceland Mr. Peabody. Large. 2x kale. At least 4x weekly. 

• Barton Springs: Quick cold plunge at least 5x weekly.

• Microdosing: Not for everyone but it sure helps my neuroplasticity.

• Correspondence: I exchange long emails with friends often. Writing is magic.

• Yoga: At least 4x weekly whilst listening to Reggae. 15 minute sessions.

• Sleep: 8 hours every night.

• Mornings: Up at sunrise. Beat heat. Feed all animals (4 dogs, 5 cats, 7 chickens, 3 pigs, 1 donkey, 2 ducks, and 8 fucking goats).

• Knitting: A daily reliable, portable companion that quells anxiety.

• Day Job: Low stress, part time, pays a lot less than my other work but the structure has been phenomenal for feeling steady on.

• Volunteer work: 1x weekly for 2-3 hours serving the homeless.

There is one other thing, too, the most important thing, the thing I have really had to consciously strive to engage in routinely since lockdown. CONNECTION with my fellow humans. I’m talking face-to-face, no screens, real live interaction. My museum job has been an excellent way to practice this—I get to meet and talk to people, then they go away. This allows me to experience genuine connection without ongoing commitment, which is a wonderful way to re-learn the basics of interpersonal relationships. 

My library writing workshops also help—we join together, a couple of dozen strangers with a common goal, a set period of time, and clear parameters and expectations. In those sessions we practice actively listening to one another and experience sharing our words and being heard. Everyone leaves feeling better than when we arrived. 

And there are my deeper connections, with many steadfast friends who have stuck with me for decades and helped me through some deeply dark times. I’m so grateful they check in and convince me to leave the house, even when I am trying to hide. This is how I really learned to be such a good friend myself.

It has been such a slog recovering from lockdown’s myriad mind wreckers. Some days I still have to force myself to go through the motions, to keep practicing all of the practices even when I don’t feel like it. Because I am convinced this is the key to my much improved mindset. 

I could not guarantee my friend that similar routines would yield similar results. Jason isn’t the only one who has shown me that sometimes there is not enough effort in the world to slay the demons. Still, I have hope for my friend, and for myself, that improvement is possible for us, and for everyone like us, dogged by depression and addled by anxiety. I hope if you are struggling too, that you will talk to someone about it, that you will keep trying, that you will find peace.

What routines do y’all use to keep sane?

NOTES:

If you’re having a mental health crisis you can call 988. I strongly encourage you to do so. 

Thanks for reading y’all. If you are able, please consider a paid subscription—$5 per month or $50 per year. Your contributions help me keep my boat afloat. If a paid subscription isn’t your thing, you can still help by sharing this with others you think might dig it.

If you’re in Austin and have clothes, linens, toiletries and/or gently used water bottles you are no longer in need of, I’d be delighted to take these things off your hands and distribute them at my weekly volunteer gig serving Austin’s Unhoused population. It sucks being homeless. It sucks worse in this heat. I’ll gladly pick up your stuff. Shoot me a note to make arrangements. Thank you! 

If you enjoy writing you might like my other substack: WriteWithSpike@substack.com. It’s kind of an online writing workshop—with prompts, space to share your work, and insights about writing and publishing.