Putting Lucky down was the hardest thing I had to do. Harder than fighting off urges to cut myself. Harder than overcoming substance abuse. Harder than not being on the right medication. Harder than telling my parents about my childhood trauma. I started to write about Lucky yesterday, but broke down. He was such a sweet and loving boy. I look fondly at our moments together, but I’m overwhelmed by grief because I’ll never get to experience them again. 

A few people who add insult to injury are my parents, brother, and M (who is a best friend, but not an emotionally available one). Sure they share their condolences, but they’re just not privy to communicating empathy, which is jarring while I’m so raw with emotion at this time. 

For example, my dad made small talk about the stimulus package while we waited for the vet tech to bring Lucky out. I’m waiting for our final goodbye and already mourning Lucky and my dad decides to talk about taxes? I don’t understand how someone can behave so casually at a time like that. We weren’t waiting at the DMV or in line for check out. We were putting my dog down. Another moment I found jarring was my mom greeting me in the parking lot by asking how I’ll pay for the vet bill. No “I’m so sorry for your loss” or “It’s ok to be sad. I’m here with you” -just a straight “How are we going to pay for this?”. I found it insulting. Despite this, I know that compassion and warmth are not their forte and didn’t hold it against them in the moment. I focused most on Lucky and the actual goodbye, waiting in anticipation to see my boy.

In hindsight, I’m fixating on how utterly alone I felt despite being surrounded by my family, and with that creeps darker thoughts. Negative what ifs and perpetual anger over the emotional support my family could never give me. I question if I really did give Lucky a good life, if my parents actually do love me, if anyone truly cares about me beyond niceties you’re supposed to say in the wake of tragedy. I wish I had discernible truth, but I’ll have to muster the will to entertain brighter thoughts to come to a balanced conclusion.

Here are my brighter thoughts. I imagine Lucky’s life through his eyes and can see the many family members he got to play with, the many households he could live in, and the holidays we all spent together. Introducing him to my parents as their grandson when he was a few months old. Giving him a daddy in my husband. Snuggling in bed and play-fighting until he got tired.

The sad truth is, at the moment, I can’t hold onto these thoughts for too long. I’m left with an all encompassing void, haunted by the places Lucky used to sleep, the idle way we used to play throughout the day. When I was present enough to bask in those moments with him, I savored them knowing our time was limited. This may be a morbid way to experience company with the one you love, but it’s my way of savoring the essence of a relationship. Time is always limited. For me, to acknowledge this while together is the ultimate form of appreciation and true love.

I’m worried about giving up the sadness. In a way it’s all I have left of him. The grief is a reminder of how deeply I loved and cared about him when we were together. The longing to be with him again is so apparent that I can’t think of happy memories without crying. His absence is so painfully present.

I feel an unrelenting sadness when I look at Lucky’s things. All the poop bags we’ll never use, his medication that was just delivered Monday, toys sprawled all over the living room floor, his favorite rug, the foot of the bed where he’d sit waiting for us to wake up. I remember him collapsing, passing out, and how dim his eyes looked on our way to the vet. I was in the car yesterday and couldn’t help but replay that traumatizing trip through his eyes  (or at least how I think he saw it). Through this lens, I can internalize his suffering and know I did the right thing by putting him to sleep. I can believe this was the best way possible for him to go. Painless and peacefully and with all the people who loved him so much. This was the most important thing to me, more important than how badly I would miss him. I’m grateful I could give him a peaceful out, surrounded by nothing but love.

Many things seem irrelevant in hindsight. Months prior to his passing, I was worked up over the fleas, annoyed by my parents on our trip to the Philippines, and stifled by the classic BPD triggers that liked to pop up and punch me in the face whenever I wanted to hang with friends. If I had known I’d be losing Lucky just two months later, I would have spent more time with him rather than obsessing over these minor inconveniences. Here goes me clinging to self-blame, the minimization of my feelings, and perpetual guilt. I wish being kinder to myself came naturally to me. Even at a time when suffering is at an all time high, I like to tack on more self-flagellation. I’ll have to let these undulating waves of guilt pass through me. Underneath it all, I’m only feeling them because I care and want so badly to be with Lucky again. 

I think of how hard it is for me to form strong connections with people and how easy it was to love Lucky, and I understand why it hurts this much to lose him. If it weren’t for my husband, I’d feel completely alone. Maybe not 100% of the time, but loneliness would be my default. I have to work extra hard to convince my brain that people really do care about me. This is why I’m terrified of loss. Losing the ones who care about me the most leave me with the ones who may or may not. 

Since recovery I’ve strengthened relationships and can even count a handful of people who are great at communicating empathy, but this doesn’t mean I’m always confident that they care. My mind is crazy talented at rationalizing why they don’t and it takes a lot of mental de-tangling to accept kind and loving words at face value. This inability to receive love may be why loss is my greatest fear. The pain it brings leads me to suicidal ideation, which is confusing and uncomfortable for someone who isn’t necessarily suicidal anymore. I don’t want to kill myself, but I don’t see a point in being here without the people who love me. It would be agony to live a life without my husband and Lucky, and now I have to endure half that battle. 

RIP Lucky.

View pics and videos of Lucky on my IG: @yournewpenpal