Dogs, Depression, and Dick Pics - by Diana Medina

This pandemic has been an emotional avalanche. As soon as shelter in place orders all over the state hit it was like a domino effect. First my relationship ended, then I lost my job, then I got rejected trying to adopt a puppy from a local dog rescue. I saw this little 3-legged dog with an underbite and big sad eyes. I fell in love with her photo. I felt a kinship with her as I too felt like I just lost a limb. I applied to adopt her and was told that they only wanted to place this dog in a home that already had another dog. I was like “ok, then can I adopt two dogs?” The answer was no because you didn’t fill out the paperwork for that but even if I did it would still be no. I could handle losing a man and a job. But being told I am not even a good candidate for a special needs dog? That sucked.

Eventually a dog from a litter my friend’s neighbors had was given to me. A little cinnamon-colored chihuahua with ears as big as her whole body. I named her Kika like my grandmother. She started to keep me company while I cried on the couch. It’s a lot of pressure being the center of her universe. Every day I wake up hoping to be the person she thinks I am.

I laid on my sofa for two weeks contemplating selling all of my belongings and getting the hell out of Sacramento. With Kika in my lap, I have cried at the losses of man and job. Realizing how little human interaction I have had, I drove myself home to Los Angeles in that state of sadness. I gorged myself on my mother’s chile rellenos with joy until she started to smother me so much that I needed to come back to my little lonely apartment. She went through my clothes to “wash them” without asking me. She kept asking me if I paid all my bills, if I had enough asthma medicine, if I miss them, if I want to move back. She told me how she was praying for me to find a new husband and for everything at the job she still thinks I have to be going well. She asked why I didn’t want to move back to LA and if it was because she did something to me. Is it because I hate the family? I love her. I love my family. I just hate Los Angeles.

I didn’t tell her Los Angeles doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. I didn’t tell her I lost my job, I didn’t tell her I was sad, I didn’t tell her I missed my ex-boyfriend. I didn’t tell her anything. Mostly because I didn’t want to answer any more questions. I didn’t want to hold space for her worries and emotions when I could barely hold space for my own.

My sofa now has a dent the shape of my ass. There is no evidence that a boyfriend ever sat on it. My desk is clear of former work clutter. It's open and waiting for me to do something else. I tried to write something inspiring and profound and instead found myself thinking about Prince Harry and Megan and how maybe she saved him from the burden of his royal family obligations. I wrote about it but it felt neither profound or inspiring. It just felt like celebrity commentary we make to not think about our own lives in a deep or meaningful way. Boredom led me to swipe on Bumble hoping to find some semblance of a prince. I only seem to find gentlemen who think the best response to “how is your day going” is an unsolicited dick pic. Who is raising these men? One of the pictures I got had a super dusty ceiling fan in the background. I replied and told that man he should really clean his ceiling fan because allergens are real then I blocked him.