I have PTSD and social phobia. I have depression issues. Mood swings. Anxiety. I’m a bundle of nerves. I was in therapy for years. I took mountains of prescription drugs. I was in the hospital for depression and suicidal ideation several times. I had electro shock. They considered putting me in a group home.

It’s very hard for me to make friends and I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never even been out on a real date before. I’m also on disability social security. I had a few jobs when I was younger. I worked at McDonald’s for a while. I worked at Wal-Mart. I worked in a grocery store, a gourmet food store. I had a work-study job at the Dean of Student’s office at WVU. They all ended up driving me crazy because I had to be around people too much.

But I tried very hard to prepare myself for some kind of rewarding career. I tried to be more sociable. I tried to be open to a romantic relationship. I tried. I tried. I tried.

In frustration, I once told my therapist that I felt like one of those frightened old dogs who hides under the porch most of the time. Rather than assuring me that everything would get better, easier, she responded in a way that really helped and really showed that she understood.

She reminded me that people love their old dogs who hide under the porch. Some people understand that life has hurt them, and they don’t expect them to be any different from what they are. In fact they love them all the more because they realize the dog that hides under the porch needs their love, and they relish those good days when the dog manages to come out from under the porch for a few minutes.

Her comment made it easier for me to accept myself the way I am. So what if I’m a broken down old dog who hides under the porch? There are worse things. Far worse things.