Why the Hell Do You Keep Packing This Kid a Banana Every Day?
How Remmie, a discarded banana, and a move to Tennessee are somehow keeping me going.
I’ve written a lot about this move.
The boxes.
The truck.
The money.
The job search.
The ridiculous amount of crap I apparently thought I needed to own.
I’ve made jokes about wine glasses, mystery boxes, missing lids, and why giving three months’ notice at your job is an absolutely terrible idea.
But there’s one part of this move I haven’t really talked about.
My depression and anxiety.
And how some days, they make all of this really fucking hard.
There are days when I don’t want to get out of bed.
Not I’m tired and would like to sleep another hour.
I mean I want to pull the covers over my head, shut everything out, and stay there.
Moving to another state?
Packing up my entire life?
Leaving a job after nine years?
Trying to find another one?
Starting over at 52?
My brain has plenty of material to work with.
And believe me, it uses ALL of it.
Luckily, I have Remmie.
And Remmie does not give a shit about my anxiety.
Remmie has things to do.
Like finding that damn banana.
Every morning, some kid’s mom apparently lovingly packs them a banana for school.
And every morning, that kid apparently thinks, Absolutely fucking not, and throws it in the bushes on the way to the bus stop.
And every morning, Remmie has to check on it.
I don’t know how many days a banana needs to sit in a bush before a 19-pound dog stops finding it fascinating, but apparently we haven’t reached that number yet.
There are bushes that require inspection.
There is pee that needs to happen.
And most importantly, there is a treat waiting at the end of all this hard work.
So I get out of bed.
Some days, that’s the accomplishment.
I got up because my dog had to pee and needed to check on the neighborhood banana.
I’ll take the win.
There are days when my anxiety gets so bad that something as stupidly simple as walking to check the mail feels like a major event.
I know that probably sounds ridiculous to someone who has never experienced anxiety like that.
It’s a mailbox.
Just walk over and check it.
Except sometimes my brain doesn’t work that way.
Sometimes that little walk feels enormous.
But Remmie needs a walk.
So we walk to the mailbox.
I check the mail.
He checks approximately 47 blades of grass.
And somehow, together, we do the thing I wasn’t sure I could do by myself.
That’s the part I don’t think people always understand about dogs.
Remmie isn’t just my dog.
He’s part of how I keep going.
When I would rather curl up somewhere and sleep until everything feels easier, he reminds me that life is still happening.
We need to get up.
We need to go outside.
We need to eat.
We need to walk.
We need to keep going.
And maybe that’s part of why I love the dog park so much.
It has become one of the few places where my brain actually gets quiet.
I watch Remmie wiggle his little butt around like he’s the mayor of the place.
He loves the dogs.
He loves the people.
Honestly, Remmie loves pretty much everybody.
And because of him, I talk to people too.
There’s no pressure.
I don’t have to explain my life.
I don’t have to talk about my job.
I don’t have to talk about moving.
I don’t have to have my shit together.
I don’t have to be interesting or successful or funny or okay.
I’m just Remmie’s mom.
And strangely, that’s one of the places where I feel most like myself.
Relaxed.
Social.
Present.
Happy.
This move is for him as much as it is for me.
I keep saying I’m moving to Tennessee because I want a different life.
And I do.
But I think there’s something deeper happening too.
I need to physically get away from parts of my past so I can hopefully start moving away from them mentally too.
There are memories here.
There are people here.
There are places that remind me of things I don’t necessarily want to think about anymore.
There’s an entire version of me here that I think I’m finally ready to leave behind.
I know Tennessee isn’t some magical place where depression and anxiety can’t find me.
I’m pretty sure they have my forwarding address.
But maybe changing my surroundings gives me room to change some other things too.
Maybe I need new routines.
New people.
New places.
A new dog park.
A place where I can figure out who I am now instead of constantly being surrounded by reminders of who I used to be.
And I know moving isn’t going to fix everything.
I’m still going to be me when I get there.
Perfectly imperfect.
Still anxious.
Still figuring things out.
Still occasionally wanting to hide under the covers.
But I’ll also still have Remmie.
And when I don’t think I can get out of bed, he’ll remind me that I can.
Not with some inspirational speech.
Not with a motivational quote.
Probably by staring at me until I realize he has to pee.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe getting better isn’t always some huge, dramatic transformation.
Maybe sometimes it’s just getting out of bed.
Walking to the mailbox.
Going to the dog park.
Packing one more box.
Taking one more step toward Tennessee.
And having a little dog beside you who has absolutely no idea he’s helping save you.
He just knows there’s probably a treat involved.
And somewhere out there, there’s another banana that needs to be investigated.