I always wondered why my life is drastically different from everyone else's.  I never wanted a family, had no particular fear, and wasn’t chasing wealth, stability, or anything that came with a five-year plan. The moment I could, I started traveling the world with no clear goal, often to places other people described as "dangerous". Always alone. I lived selfishly, freely, and with the impressive confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

To finance these trips—and to remain available for the next questionable idea—I changed jobs constantly. I didn’t care much what I did for money; "career" was not exactly glowing on my to-do list. This meant I also moved an absurd number of times. I am not exaggerating when I estimate I moved house around 100 times. Luckily, I owned very little, so packing was less of a dramatic life transition and more of a recurring arm exercise.

Eventually, though, the constant moving began to look less like freedom and more like an administrative disaster. When forms asked for my last three addresses, I stared at them like they were ancient riddles written by people with stable mailboxes. I had no idea where I had lived between one trip and the next job, and my proud opposition to ordinary life slowly turned into the uncomfortable suspicion that there might, in fact, be something slightly wrong with me.

So, in an attempt to trade constant movement and wandering for a more settled, age-appropriate lifestyle, I came up with what I considered a brilliant idea: get a dog. I had always loved dogs. I’d had one as a child and had cared for two in a previous living situation. Clearly, the time had come to get one of my own and begin what people optimistically call "a real life."

I went to the dog shelter with two friends, who came along mainly to make sure I left with only one dog and not a small, emotionally complex herd. I didn’t really care which dog I took, but they insisted I be specific. So, I pointed out the yellow one on the left or the black one on the right, completely ignoring the silver one in the middle. In the end, I left with none of them. The property manager said one thing, the landlord said another, and I was sent home dogless to sort out my bullshit.

That night, I had a dream in which a powerful voice told me to take the one in the middle. Since any dog would have done, I returned to the shelter once I had the written permission. On the way, I passed a boating store called Sailor, and the voice appeared again: take the silver one; his name is Sailor. So, I did. The moment he was released from prison, I let him run free in an open field by the airport. He immediately began chasing after the Haitians who were there. Great, I thought, I’ve adopted a racist dog. Fortunately, it turned out he was only trying to find his previous owner because in his mind, before prison, there must have been made some sort of mistake.

At the time, I had invested the little money I had in a 1,000-thread-count white bed sheet set. The former queen of the world could no longer sleep on anything less. Unfortunately, the new king of the household worked fast. I was waitressing at a rib joint, and when I wasn’t looking, Sailor successfully relocated every leftover barbecue rib straight into my luxury investment. All of them. And he did it with the brightest smile ever believed to exist. I couldn’t even be mad. He was an amazing dog, and the voice had been right.

The first time Sailor escaped leash training, he ran a few feet away, turned to look at me, and did a victory dance that said, quite clearly, Well? What are you going to do about it? Then he came right back to me. The park rangers had it with me and my dog who kept swimming to the wrong side of the lake chasing squirrels, so I had to forbid it. Sailor understood me perfectly. He simply filed my command under "suggestions from management" and gave me a kiss on the cheek as if to say, No worries, I’ll be right back. They’ll never catch me. By the time I walked around the entire lake to retrieve him, he was already sitting by my bench on the right side of the lake, looking innocent and dry enough to insult me. Once, however, he climbed out of the lake into a jungle-like patch and could not figure out how to get back into the water. Suddenly, he needed Mommy’s saving. Mommy, unfortunately, was terrified of the snake-infested lake. Mommy swam anyway. When I could not reach him from the water, Sailor suggested the jungle route, which again, was occupied by men sized spiders Mommy also was afraid of. Yet, I made a fist and loud noises with my mouth shut tight, while storming through the webs. With help, I got him out and learned that day I can overcome almost any phobia if the reason is right. Otherwise, I prefer to keep my phobias neatly where they are.

Sailor’s favorite lake had flying fish. I stood by that lake easily for up to six hours while he waited for the day, he would finally catch one. Once he actually did but both animals were scared at the time of happening, so everybody lived. My attempts to get him out of the water in time for work became increasingly ridiculous. I starved him for a few days and then opened an airtight container of freshly cooked steak on the shore. Nothing. I threw rocks. I screamed. I begged. I bought a very long rope, but he recognized the plot immediately and refused to enter the water with that suspicious thing attached. Still, Sailor needed to swim because of his hip dysplasia, so I borrowed a very light fishing rod and clipped it to his collar. He could not feel it and went in happily. When it was time to reel him back to shore, well, it broke. This was a game I could not win. He truly deserved his name.

I do not remember exactly how I got fired from the rib joint, but I did somehow land a job at an international nonprofit helping women around the world. It was just my boss, a scientific director, and me running the show, and for a while it was wonderful. Within six months, I had turned my life around. Every morning, Sailor gently nudged me awake when it was time to go to the ocean. For breakfast we shared a yellow plate, which he inspected carefully. If he approved of something, he took his fair share while generously making sure I had enough left. I learned to manage the sadness in his eyes when I left for work. After work, I picked up his girlfriend and drove them both to the dog park. Unlike me, Sailor had many friends, because Sailor could do no wrong. Everyone at the dog park knew this and complimented me for raising such a gentle giant. I could barely make eye contact because, outside of work, I had mostly resigned from humanity. I just loved Sailor and dogs in general. Sailor wanted only three things: to cuddle with me, go to the ocean or lake, and play with his girlfriend. Coincidentally, that was all I wanted too, plus work. And there was plenty of that. I spent an entire day preparing for an executives’ meeting. The next morning, my work was gone. Fuk. I panicked. Everyone was busy, so I spent another day recreating everything, hoping no one would find me out. When I finished, I placed the new presentation to the left of my computer—right beside the original one, which had apparently been sitting there in plain sight all freaKn day. I needed to see a doctor.

My boss had only two requests for the day the executives arrived: all three of us in the office before 10 a.m., and absolutely no jokes, which the scientific director was famous for. Ten o’clock gave me enough time to stop by urgent care and find out what was wrong with me before I ruined this very important day by simply existing. The doctor found nothing. I started crying because I knew something was wrong. She then said, I ought to do something about the anxiety attacks which she had mistaken the crying for and gave me a prescription. I took it to the pharmacy, hoping it would help me survive executive day with a little dignity and preferably no neurological outages. They needed ten minutes to fill it. It was only 9:15 a.m. I stepped outside into the sun, when the first heart attack occurred.

My left arm froze at a 45-degree angle. My chest hurt terribly, my heart raced, and I could not breathe, so the dizziness kept getting worse. My mouth was stuck half open with drool coming out. Luckily, I was right by the pharmacy, so I dragged myself back inside, certain they would call an ambulance. Instead, they handed me my pills in a hurry. I could not say or write "911", "ambulance" or "hospital" because my mouth and arm were both useless objects. I did not understand why the pharmacists had no concept of heart failure. It did not matter. I decided I had to drive myself. As a smoker, I reasoned that my heart was already used to limited oxygen, which was medically questionable but emotionally convenient. First, though, I called work to explain that, sadly, I might not make executive day due to a small scheduling conflict with death. The scientific director answered. I mumbled as well as drooling allowed. I only heard Where are you? and I’ll come get you before the second heart attack arrived. On executive day, I managed to pull two out of three people out of the office. Honestly, who would not have a freaKn heart attack or two? The director, who had worked in health care all her life, did have a concept of heart failure. When she found me, she drove me to the emergency room while laughing, repeating the words “anxiety” and “attack,” and telling me not to worry. I dramatically sank to the floor in the emergency room, but apparently drama does not move you up the triage list. When my vitals came back normal, they gave me a higher dose of the very pills already sitting in my right hand. I was given a few more, driven home to Sailor, and immediately passed out.

The next day, the director suggested I see a D.O., so I did. As any good D.O. would, she told me to drink more water for the headaches and prescribed an antidepressant because the given Xanax only put me to sleep, no matter the dosage. I learned everything I could about anxiety attacks but found no convincing evidence that this was my actual problem. Acute depression, up yours. I had Sailor. Instead of going to the psychiatrist I had been referred to, I went to a neurologist. The kind old man listened and said, "Girl, you have good insurance. I could put you through a million dollars’ worth of tests, but chances are you really just need to see a psychiatrist." I hated tests, so I took his Oxcarbazepine, added the D.O.’s antidepressant, and decided to leave the whole thing alone, taking their meds in good faith.

I first noticed the anger attacks in Yemen. If people at the food counter could not quickly figure out which dish I was pointing at, I would become furious. In Vegas, when people did not drive to my liking, my knuckles turned red and I cursed out the entire human race through raging tears. At the supermarket, if I said I did not need a bag and my items still ended up in plastic, I repeated myself angrily while holding up my own bag like evidence in a courtroom. If they then threw away the unused plastic bag, I delivered a passionate environmental speech not only to the clerk but also to everyone trapped behind me in line. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong tone. So, what people actually learned was not "save the planet", but that I am a crazy bitch, quite possibly needing supervision.

The only time I could stop one of those eruptions mid-flight was when I realized I was taking it out on Sailor. Then I snapped back into myself, apologized immediately, and hugged him to death.

At that time, I could easily finish three bottles of wine on a bad Saturday. I went to the supermarket in the morning and bought like five bottles of red, a few whites, and several six-packs in case of beer-related emergencies. Once, two gay guys behind me at the register looked at my purchases and said, "Looks like this will be a nice party." I answered honestly, "This? Oh, this is just breakfast." They completely lost it and paid for everything.

My boss was leaving the association, so we hired a bookkeeper to help out. Before she said a single word, I knew she was an alcoholic, based on reliable education by my own mother. I, of course, did not consider myself to be one. I said nothing. She left the office with an excuse every two hours; I stayed silent. When she seriously asked what language was spoken in Spain, I did not chuckle. When my boss found mouthwash in the bathroom, I pretended to be just as confused as everyone else. Then the new boss arrived, and her first order of business was to promote the alcoholic and fire me so she could install her own people. Fuk. I had planned to help women all over the world for the rest of my life. Instead, I went home to Sailor rather than into the next burning building, because dogs also comfort the broken, crying losers. From then on, I no longer needed to quit my jobs, it was all done for me.

Every bad thing comes with something good. My new job was with a renowned software company; I only had to stay sharp for a while, and life would settle. I missed the change in Sailor’s energy after we moved away from his girlfriend. Surely, he would adjust. When I first got him, I ran to the vet for every sign of the sniffles until the vet refused to take my money and promised he was fine.

I was also distracted by two strange nights in our new house. One morning I found the toiletries that I had loosely thrown into a suitcase stored next to my bed, neatly arranged beside the now open suitcase. No broken doors or windows, no signs of any kind of break-ins, no explanation. I checked Sailor but he didn’t know the difference between tampons and hair sponges. Choosing to forget it was my best option. Another time, while dog-sitting at a friend’s house, I went to bed with the bookshelf intact and woke up to half the books thrown down as if in rage. I fixed the shelves and told no one. There was no time. Sailor was unwell. I heard the vet’s calming voice in my head, while trying to figure out how to take a day off, two weeks into my new job.

On Thursday, I saw his stool and called out. My vet was away, so I drove to the closest clinic. The vet there was an alcoholic as well, but he was a block from my house, and I needed help now. He said Sailor had either been poisoned or had a rare blood disease. Blood work would decide how to save him. He treated what he could, told me what to watch for, and ordered blood in case a transfusion became necessary. By Friday, I had heard nothing. On Saturday morning, yellow fluid drained from Sailor’s limbs. Crying and frantic, I lifted all ninety pounds of him into the car and sped to the alcoholic vet. I forgot my wallet, raced home for it, then returned while Sailor waited for the transfusion I believed would save us both. My card declined against the estimated $2,000 due before treatment. I called my friend in California, the one who always answers the phone at all hours, side effect of working in film production. We switched out the cards with the receptionist and she told me to pay for whatever he needed until insurance reimbursed it. I could not bear the bleach smell and was not allowed inside, so I waited outside in the sun while she kept me breathing. When enough time had passed, I let her go back to sleep and went in to ask about Sailor. The receptionists were busy. Then one of them said something with unfortunately and handed me the bill.

It took me time to understand. Pain, no matter how vast, cannot kill you yet. A genetic oversight, I believe. Richard Dawkins says genes are never done altering themselves; perhaps after humanity destroys the planet and itself, they will finally give the next species that mercy. I did not reproduce, so it may take longer.

From what happened with my mother, I had learned that seeing the body matters. Another friend who was able to make sense of my crying on the phone rushed to the hospital and escorted me to the back of the clinic. I lasted two seconds beside my one-and-a-half-year-old dead son, my only family, my unconditional love. I had not been with him when he died in that cold, sterile room. No one had comforted him. I could not watch him through the running tears, the hyperventilating breathing, the shaking body, the emotional pain that sucked all life out of me, too.

My friend paid the bill, $300. No one had tried the $800 transfusion. The rotten alcoholic vet and his minions had done nothing to save my dog. No one told Sailor that the money was secured six minutes after my own card declined. Sailor was gone, and so was I.

I had stopped smoking six weeks earlier, so my friend drove me to a gas station as a best guess. I appreciated his wisdom, then assured him I was fine so he would leave. I needed to be alone. I had eleven and a half months left on a lease for a house that only made sense with Sailor alive. I could not stop crying. I thought of my mother and made a plan. Urgent care was open. Later tho, I learned you cannot overdose on Valium under normal circumstances, so I only took the prescribed dose, plus two, since they were so small.

I had to return to work on Monday. People needed training on how to maximize profits, and I was the only German speaker. When I realized no one there would understand—because to them, he was only a dead dog—I fell back into the state of hysterical crying and grasping for oxygen which was nowhere to be found. I was grateful for the small pills that stopped the emotional hemorrhaging for an hour at a time.

Early in life, Wayne Dyer taught me about the danger of regret. I understood and agreed with him, but practice was impossible now. For a long time, every falling leaf made me cry because a life just simply ended. My landlord released me from the lease and kept almost everything I owned except my clothes, which was more than fine. I had no need for the antique table Sailor had chewed, the brand new oversized doggy door, my bed, my art, my dining set, or whatever else was in that house. I donated everything dog-related and kept only his favorite toy and a few precious things, like our yellow plate, in case I could ever bear to look at them again. I paid someone with a boat to spread Sailor’s ashes where they made the most sense, though nothing—absolutely nothing—made sense anymore.

working on it