My Person Changes Like The Seasons

My person changes like the seasons.

Like springtime, she can be light and energetic, full of life and merriment, or the total opposite, she can be like the winter- cold and harsh, usually to herself. She can arrive like the sun, she laughs, and the world laughs with her. Or the darkness can take hold, and pull everything low. Humans have many names for this, but I call it the change.

I can sense the shift before they do; the energy in the room builds up like the air before a storm. On bright days, my person wakes like a door blown open. She is full of energy, she talks too fast, and moves through the house too quickly. Her presence is large, and the house feels smaller. Her hands shake with ideas. She forgets where she put her keys and her shoes. The way time works. They even forget how to sit.

They promise me a ton of adventures; long walks, new toys, big plans spoken aloud as if the air itself is taking notes. Music blares, and the windows are thrown open. The room feels static and electric; it smells similar to the precipice before a storm.

I follow. I always follow.

She pets me too hard, then softly whispers flustered apologies, her eyes distracted, as if seeing things only she herself can see. She tells me she loves me ten times in a row as if the words might expire, as if I don't already know and return it a thousandfold. They don't eat much, but they drink water as if they are dying of thirst. They don't sleep, they pace. They start projects and then drift away, leaving chaos sprinkled around the house.

Other people say my person is "doing better" then.

I know better isn't always safer, because then the crash comes. It always does.

The heavy season arrives quietly, sneaking into the shadows of the house. She slows, like the air has grown thicker. They sleep too much or not at all and stare at the walls like they are speaking a language she almost understands. The house gets quieter, but that doesn't mean it's calm

On those days, my person smells different. Metallic, like tears they have not yet shed. They isolate themselves and stop answering messages. They say they are tired, but they really mean they are empty. Sometimes, they sit on the sofa and don't move for a long time, just staring into nothingness. I sit with them.

Thats when the bad thoughts come. I don't hear them, not the way my person does. But I know because the silence feels oppressive and charged. I hear the way her breathing breaks. She rubs her arms as if there is a chill, like her bad thoughts have made her cold inside, and she is trying desperately to warm herself. She flinches at mirrors. She whispers things quietly to herself when she thinks nobody can hear, things that sound of shame and fear and wanting the noise to stop.

I press closer.

Sometimes they try to be alone. They close the bathroom door, and the room fills with that buzzing sound. The sound I hate the most.

This is when I break the rules.

I scratch, I whine, I paw at the door. I do anything, anything, to get my person to open the door, even if it's just to make it stop. I lick the salt from their skin and make myself heavy, warm, and impossible to ignore. This is when they break down in sobs, their entire being shaking as they throw themselves over me as if I am the only thing to keep them afloat. They say they wish they didn't feel like this. I wish it too. I've seen marks they try to hide, not fresh, but lines on the skin. Stories of things they have survived, of thoughts that overwhelmed them, of things nobody else hears. I have seen the way they freeze and stare into the void when memories come rushing in.

I also see what comes next.

I see her stop, pause, and put things down. I see her choose instead to sit with me and hold me. Stroke my fur in comfort and whisper things to me she can tell nobody else. She fears judgment; she fears nobody will love her for who she is, but I do. She is my person.

Other people think I am just a dog, but I am a life raft for my person. I demand presence, I bring them toys they don't want in those dark seasons. I force them to go outside; fresh air helps. I pull them back into themselves.

The bright seasons return eventually. They laugh again and apologise for worrying everybody. They clean the house as if they are trying to scrub away the dark season. They promise it won't happen again.

It will, but I don't mind repetition; dogs are good at it after all.

I do not need my person to be perfect, fixed, or balanced. I need her to be here, breathing, with me. I need her to try to live in the moment and take things one step at a time. I am not her therapist nor her medicine. I am weight when she is floating, I am a life raft when she is drowning. I notice things others miss.

The way her smile fades a day before the crash, or the way she pets me more slowly when thoughts get too loud, the way she holds me tighter when she is struggling with her inner demons.

They say animals save lives like it's a metaphor- but I know it isn't.

I have stood between my person and the silence. I have pulled them back into rooms they were trying to leave. I have given them a reason to stay.

I don't understand bipolar, but I do understand my person.

As long as they are here- regardless of the season- I will keep pressing close.

That is my job, and I will keep doing it.

After all, my person says I am a very good boy.