Without my dog I think there's very little question I'd have committed suicide by now. I'm massively massively depressed - no question about it, and (I've mentioned this stuff on here before so it's no massive secret) because lots of the depression is linked to a series of miscarriages (add in a shitty bereavement for a dear family member as well who died because of NHS infections and incompetence) my GP will not help in any way with the depression unless I consent to gettting a coil fitted - which, with the biological clock ticking, I can't quite mentally cope with.
I've been found on the bathroom floor surrounded by pill packets trying to muster up the courage to end it all before a couple of times - and then we got the dog. Linked in with my depression is a tendency toward agoraphobia and panic attacks when it's at its worst - I can just about function to get to work if I promise myself it's only X hours till I can come home - but I go to ground and try to avoid going out at all, because I can't cope with crowds, or reminders of what I've lost or the like.
Then, in January, just before I knew things would hit their lowest (the bereavement was yet to happen, I had a succession of due dates to get through and a family baby due the week or so before mine from a relative I find deeply hard to deal with anyway) - we got the dog. I HAD to get out and about - the daylight helped with the SAD element of my depression (I always sink over the winter - life had just meant I didn't so much as sink, but fall through the floor and make it to Australia), I met people and the dog... well the dog made me laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and just watching him bumble through the woods with his tail wagging makes me smile - and watching him try to jump to reach a squirrel with the most confused look on his face cracks me up with laughter. It's also the only way I've found to unfuck my head when things are at their worst - rather than just lying there feeling black - I can actually partially unscramble things to some semblance of functionality.
In a way - the funny looking thing, with a beard that's usually got flourescent yellow tennis ball entrails in it, ears so big and floppy he could pick up Sky telly on them and a permanently confused facial expression (he's so thick he gets confused by his own farts) gave me, gave us both in fact, our lives back. My husband was coming home from work with such an utterly worn and haunted expression on his face when he got out of the car (you know, when he didn't think I'd seen him) and now when he gets out of the car - he smiles at the thought of the hello he's going to get from the dog - ok, so the dog does massive "I've missed YOOOOOOOUUUUUUU" reunions when you come back from having a pee... but still.
I'm still not well (no thanks to the NHS hah) and still in a lot of emotional pain and the world's still pretty grey but I'm still here, and I'm still vaguely functioning and a large part of that is due to the farting sofa-hogging monster. I'd absolutely die to defend him.