February 22nd, 2018
I took a day to collect my thoughts. I was so scatterbrained in writing that last entry, and with good reason, I might add. In fact, I'll dedicate most of today's entry towards… why that is. I do think out of everything Michael asked of me, everything I obliged to, the thing that hurt me most was the seclusion. The months of taking care of everything on my own. That summer before everything fell apart was a respite. It was better, having Liam by my side for most of it, but the crushing depression I felt afterwards was far too much. It stuck with me in the form of trauma, stress, anxiety.
At the time of writing, Terror's been out for several days. Bless him. I haven't mentioned him yet, and I'll be sure to talk about him more in a later memoir. He is my husband, after all. Here I am, writing this in the confines of my home, surrounded by most of my family and friends; loved ones, and yet I can feel just a sliver of that loneliness. Only a sliver, mind you. Nothing even remotely comparable to what I felt back then. Heavens no. But it's a sharp reminder of what it does to me. Nothing was so poignant as the isolation.
My sixth year was nothing but that. I… can recall the details now. It's been some time since my last bout with onset amnesia, but before now this time of my life was mostly a blur. In some respects, it still is. I knew very little beyond what I had done to sustain Michael, myself and our home. I could certainly perform tasks for others, mind you. To keep myself occupied, I offered my services to a few other residents in Snowpoint. This kept my mind from idling; it kept my paws busy, and it was usually relatively easy work. I didn't need the money, after all. I had copious amounts in my possession now, and as a result my rates were incredibly low. I would have done it for free, if not for the insistence of those I worked for. On top of this, I dabbled in work as a seamstress. Usually patchwork, often seeing pairs of childrens' pants arrive at my doorstep with large holes worn into the knees. Sometimes I would stitch up a pair of socks or two. And, at the time I believe this only happened once, I was asked to fashion a pleated skirt from near scratch for a dear friend of mine who found herself in a bit of an emergency. Nevertheless, it turned out great, and I knew that this was indeed going to be my most fruitful passion in life.
Amidst it all, I had to keep a rigorous schedule. I had alarms set for various parts of the day. The middle of the day, even. I couldn't focus. I lost track of what I was doing often, one minute I was cleaning out the stove after cooking and delivering a casserole to the justice department as a thank you for everything they had done, and the next minute I was wandering around with a swiffer in paw, curious as to why the oven door was ajar, and a pair of gloves were left out on the stove top.
I even experienced night terrors. Dreams I knew were there, as I awoke drowsy and disheveled after a long night of tossing and turning, and yet I couldn't recall a thing by then. Increasingly I began to worry… myself. At times I would sleep walk, or prepare meals and forget about them for days, leaving them to go bad in the refrigerator before realizing what I had done. There were nights where I left the television on, rather loudly at that, and I would awake at two or three in the morning, wondering why Michael was watching a program at such a ridiculous hour. And then it hit me, and I would… I would break down.
To combat this, it became routine for me to make multiple rounds throughout the house each morning and evening, just to ensure nothing was left on or ajar, nothing was out of place, and I had not miraculously left the sink running in the middle of the night, flooding the bathroom by morning. I would habitually keep one of the dining room chairs in my own bedroom, and prop it against the door, preventing me from escaping in a half-slumber. And even then, some mornings I would awake to find it generously pushed to the side.
I experienced this for almost a year, and I was terrified of myself, but even moreso I was humiliated. Even though nobody else knew but my therapist. I had never been in such a state of disarray. I was always tired, I couldn't think straight, and yet I had lived all my life in a pinnacle state of order and organization. Summer was again a bit of a respite. The distractions I had gathered in the form of second and third jobs had done enough to keep me busy. Even though my own night antics never ceased, it was much easier to cope having a friendly chat with a neighbor the following morning. I craved that interaction.
Possibly more than I even realized.
My seventh birthday was approaching by summer's end, and I was worried about the days and seasons to come yet again. But more than that, I began to worry if I was simply just… getting old. My therapist informed me of the lifespans of most canine Pokemon and I wondered if… maybe I was reaching the second half of my life, and parts of me were starting to fade. None of these fears helped matters at all, naturally. And while in time these very fears would be assuaged, another big change in my life was coming that I never in a million years could have anticipated prior to this point.