On Health, Hypomania, and Homes for Dogs

Another dog post. Sort of.

It’s been a minute. Actually, a month… And change. And in that time has anything changed? Well, yes and no.

Pain, pain, and more pain.

Along with skydiving stories and a testimony to just how fucked the US has always been, my last post focused on pain, and that pain hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, I’d say the pain has worsened, and evolved. My MRI results are in, and as expected, my spine is degrading like a fossil left to desiccate in the desert sun. I have yet to see the various specialists for various followups, but I get the feeling physio won’t save me this time. With much of the pain congregating in my hands and fingers, I’m starting to wonder if there’s something more at play than the pinched nerves the MRI revealed. Though who could imagine a lifetime spent working with my hands would lead to something like, oh, say, arthritis… It may be best not to jump to conclusions, to wait until I see the specialists, and to focus on what’s in front of me. What’s in front of me are dogs. Lots and lots of dogs.

Look at these little things!

Thirteen dogs and counting.

You may have come across my second publication, Charlie’s Refuge: Saving Street Dogs. Or not, because I’m admittedly terrible at self promotion. Here’s the gist of it: Though my partner and I had previously toyed with the idea of creating an animal refuge, the need proved so great as to not leave us a choice. After saving Dor from the shelter, our fifth dog, Nesi came along, broke into our yard three times, and refused to leave. Given how hard it’s been to integrate Dor into our flock (he doesn’t get along with Floki, a big black dog like Dor, only a few years his senior and several kilos heavier) I was relieved that Dor would have some company. Through fundraising efforts and your very generous donations, we’ve managed to build Dor and Nesi a large enclosure within our yard so that they don’t have to be confined to small spaces while the house kids are out in the yard.

Dor and Nesi checking out their new digs.

While undertaking this already demanding task, another sweet little girl appeared in our village, plump, pregnant, and almost ready to pop. Our hope was to spay her before she gave birth; there are already far too many puppies in the world, many of whom are bred for profit or drowned in the river by those too stupid and careless to spay their pets or take on the responsibility. Wouldn’t you know it, though, the sweet little girl gave birth the morning after we took her in, and we found ourselves with six little sausage rolls to take care of until they’re old enough to leave mom and find their forever homes. Don’t get me wrong, they’re unfathomably adorable, but the timing for taking on this extra responsibility is, well, terrible.

Mom and pups are doing just fine.

My dreams of having a garden shed, workshop, and chicken coup have been dashed, it’s clear we have to use the space on our land as dog shelters. Though I hate the idea of confining a dog to a small space, it’s a better solution for dogs like Misty who are confined to even smaller cages at the shelter, or the local boy we found tied to a tree with bits of wire and left in the heat with no water. As soon as we secure dog houses for Dor and Nesi (we could use a bit more help with the costs) we can get to work cleaning out the spaces I acknowledge are no longer mine and set them up as permanent shelters for dogs we hope to house temporarily and re-home. It doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough, though. There are so so many dogs on the street who need love and care. If I could I would buy the entire village and convert it into an animal refuge, not just for the dogs but for the many farm animals who I wish could escape a life of mistreatment by uneducated and unempathetic locals. But alas, we do what we can.

This is starting to feel familiar.

The costs and complications of turning our home into an animal refuge are significant and at times all consuming. I spend most of my days not just looking after the thirteen dogs in our care but also tending to the land, ensuring our space is as dog appropriate as possible, and trying to figure out where the money will come from to make this endeavor sustainable. This is far from unfamiliar territory for me.

Years ago, in a more idealistic phase before a major burnout, I was in a very different place (physically, mentally, geographically, you name it) and wanted to put my energy into creating a non-profit. And indeed, within six months I had written a forty page business plan, prototyped a product, spread my tentacles to get some big name musicians onboard, and almost launched Heavy Metal Rings: A company dedicated to create rings inlaid with guitar strings, bass strings, and drumsticks from Heavy Metal musicians, with all profits going towards mental health initiates. This back in those innocent days when I thought I was only suffering from depression and anxiety, well before I discovered I’m bipolar.

My Heavy Metal Rings. Sure do wish I could have got this off the ground.

Bipolar II disorder and hypomania.

Curious thing, bipolar II disorder: It’s tough to detect and in many ways unrecognizable to the manic/depressive mood swings most commonly associated with bipolar I disorder. I was always low, but relatively functional, and then when seasons or circumstances changed for the favorable I would find myself in a state of hypomania, a period in which I felt like I could do anything and often did everything with little regard for sleep or proper self-care. This state of being is exactly as sustainable as you’d imagine it to be, and the subsequent crash would knock me out of commission for months or longer before I’d seek treatment or try a new medication for what I figured to be an acute period of depression.

My last post-hypomania crash coincided with the sudden death of my beloved dog Lucy, the end of a relationship, my multiple losses of housing, and a profound burnout that had been building throughout decades of self employment (self harm.) And unfortunately, the promising non-profit I had pulled from thin air was a victim of this burnout, and it died before I could officially launch. I was crushed, and it would take me years to recover.

These memories are all too present as I contemplate the next steps for Charlie’s Refuge. There’s only so long it can operate as a guy and gal with a little bit of land who happen to love dogs more than people (there, I said it.) This venture will eventually need to be registered as a non-profit, then it’ll need charitable status, and it’ll need help in the form of volunteers or employees, especially since my declining physical health means I’ll only be able to do this for so long.

Things are different now. My mood and mental state have been stable for well over a year thanks to the antipsychotics that address my bipolar disorder. I also have secure housing and relative financial stability. Most importantly, perhaps, I have a loving and supportive partner who shoulders every bit as much of the burden as I do. I am, of course, still worried, for reasons mentioned above, as well as reasons beyond my control like the world being a raging dumpster fire spinning uncontrolably towards oblivion. When I see these dogs, though, dogs who were once scared and hungry on the street now playful (and occasionally a pain in the ass,) I know I’m doing the right thing.

Thank you for reading my Adventures in Antidepressants (and Dogs.) If you’re enjoying these posts and would like to read more, please share this or any other post, like and comment to help game the algorithm, and please subscribe for free. Every interaction makes me feel seen, validated, and encouraged, and hopefully helps break the stigma surrounding mental illness. You can also donate to my GoFundMe campaign, and subscribe to Charlie’s Refuge: Saving Street Dogs for updates on the sweet souls getting a second chance. Thank you for all your support and encouragement so far.