Life is just strange. I’ve found myself saying “I used to work as a paramedic”, no longer that I am one. My dog is just a plain silly wonderful empath and as I approach her first birthday I still can’t quite believe I have her or the effect she has on me. I don’t have to suppress the struggle out and about and I hope that makes me less of a stress on who I’m with in doing so with her. I can be more places alone as well. It makes it feel better and possible to get through.

It’s however also the end of the chapter and I don’t know how to feel. I feel like I should cry but I haven’t, and I don’t know if that’s the prozac or the truth. There’s relief that I can actually let my nervous system settle and re-approach new things down the road. But there’s a profound sadness as well with work ending. This obviously isn’t the outcome I sought. I never wanted to believe I was this dysfunctional. I never wanted to believe I was just 8113446 to them either. But here we are. Seems I now have to deliver “the news” one more time about the death of paramedic me to those I know.

Now I journey on to find a way to connect with all the other lost and broken numbers out there one conversation about training a service dog at a time.

Until next time please just stay.