Anxiety Theory

                                    

                                          
Artemi
                          
As October turns into November the leaves around Chicago start to change from green to different shades of yellow and red and orange. While there's not a lot of comparisons with Chicago and Russia, the trees changing were almost exactly the same. For the first time since I got here I found something that reminded me of home. 
                          
Gabriella had to work this morning so I offered to take Hank for a walk and she agreed to let me because she doesn't take him out much. It's not really her fault, she just doesn't like to leave the apartment all too much. So me and my favorite dog in the whole world decide to go out and explore on the last few days you can be outside here without being in ten layers of clothing. 
                          
I find a quaint little path and decide to walk down it. It was still in the city but away from the main part so there wasn't tons of foot traffic. I sit on the first bench I find and Hank sits in front of me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. I pet his head and start to scratch behind his ear. His collar rattled and I automatically look down at his dog tag. I take it in my hand and read HANK in big letters. I turn it around and see it had "service dog" engraved in it as well.  
                          
"You're a service dog" I ask and he perks his ears up. Well this was news to me. "What kind of service dog are you" I wonder out loud. The letters "PSD" were small on the service dog side of his tag and I decide to loook it up. 
                          
A psd is a psychiatric service dog who assists their owners with anxiety and depression and other mental illnesses. They are able to aid owners with "invisible" disabilities. They are trained to do certain things with certain commands and help their owners out when needed. 
                          
"What can you do" I ask and the dog just looks up at me. "Lay down" I say and he does. "Okay. Roll over" I try and he does that too. But every dog knows these, what makes him different? 
                          
Eventually I stop trying to read so deep into this and get him home. I get buzzed up to her apartment and return her dog for her. 
                          
"Was he good today" Gabriella asks as I take off his leash allowing him to run free instead of dragging me. 
                          
"Always" I smile. 
                          
"That's right, cause you're a good boy" she coos bending down to pet him. He jumps up and licks her face. 
                          
"I didn't know he was a service dog" I start and she turns to me slowly. 
                          
"How did you know that" she asks. 
                          
"It's on his tag" I explain. 
                          
"Yeah, he is. He's trained to help me" she begins to explain. 
                          
"What does he do" I question. 
                          
"You know when I passed out the other day" she asks. 
                          
"Yeah" I nod. 
                          
"It was from a anxiety attack. He can try and calm me down or keep my head from hitting the floor. He crawls between me and the floor so it rests on him until I calm down. And if I pass out he will either alert someone else but if no one is around he stays by me until somebody comes around" she shrugs. 
                          
"Wow. Dogs really are mans best friend" I nod. 
                          
"He is mine" she smiles petting him again. 
                          
"Do you get anxiety attacks often" I ask. 
                          
"Not anymore, no. And when I do I usually control them so they don't hit me until I'm home. The last one I had away from home was last year when I was at work but that's the last major episode I've had."
                          
"Why does that happen?"
                          
"Anxiety is silent and tricky. There isn't a reason why it happens, it can be triggered from nothing, it can be triggered by a word or situation. For me it's a part of life. Sometimes the dark triggers it because I feel like I'm back in that closet surrounded by feces and urine and dirty food. At the same time I can't be in the sunlight because it hurts my head. Sometimes it's when I hear a door closing, I think it's my grandma coming to beat me but it's just someone at work doing their job. It's hard to tell if or when it's going to happen. I've gotten better at knowing when it comes and suppressing it until I get home but it doesn't always work."
                          
"I... I don't know what to say" I whisper. I wanted so bad to help but what am I supposed to do? 
                          
"You don't have to say anything, Artemi. This isn't your fight, these aren't your problems" she insists. 
                          
"I care about you Gabriella.... so much. So to hear about this, yeah, it hurts. I hurt for you. I see you smile and I feel like nothing in existsnce can take it away. That smile that lights up this world is just a mask to hide what you're going through. Even though I know it's just a mask your smile is so beautiful and it makes me believe that everything is okay."
                          
"Sometimes it is, especially with you around. My anxiety isn't a driving force with you, that's why you had never noticed before. In a way... you're my cure" she claims. 
                          
"Good, because I like being around you" I insist.
                          
"I like having you around" she smiles. 
                          
"Wanna make something for lunch" I offer. 
                          
"Yeah, what do you have in mind" she wonders walking into the kitchen. 
                          
"Something warm" I laugh. 
                          
We end up making chili and tea because tea is amazing and sitting down in the dining room to eat. We sit around and talk and like always, and like always she listens to every word. One of my favorite things about her is that she's always listening. If she doesn't understand something she asks, when my accent starts getting really thick and she can't hear me she tells me to slow down. She legitimately cares about what I have to say and being so new here that means the world to me. She has her own problems but she puts so much energy into me and doing stuff with me it makes me feel... loved. 
                          
I knew I loved her but I wasn't sure if she felt the same. And if she did, I wasn't sure she knew what love is. She has never loved or been loved so who knows what's going through her mind right now. But I loved her, I know that for a fact. I can't tell her because I don't want to scare her, I don't want her to feel like she has to say it because I did. But I know she can feel it, she can see it in the way I look at her. Like she is the best thing I have ever seen. And she is.