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First let’s talk about the difference between a service dog and an emotional support animal (ESA). ESAs are not permitted in public. Many people get doctor’s notes from their mental health professional for an ESA when they rent and their landlord’s don’t permit animals. ESAs are good for those that require emotional support and comfort. They are granted access to fly in the cabin of an airplane per the Air Carrier Access Act. Because of this, it’s important that an ESA is well behaved in public. An ESA is not a pet. Neither is a service dog.
Oregon & Beyond.
I was a victim, then a survivor, now I choose to thrive!
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First let’s talk about the difference between a service dog and an emotional support animal (ESA). ESAs are not permitted in public. Many people get doctor’s notes from their mental health professional for an ESA when they rent and their landlord’s don’t permit animals. ESAs are good for those that require emotional support and comfort. They are granted access to fly in the cabin of an airplane per the Air Carrier Access Act. Because of this, it’s important that an ESA is well behaved in public. An ESA is not a pet. Neither is a service dog.

I cringe when I hear or see people say things akin to, “I’m sooo OCD!” When did OCD become a social norm, or something to strive for? I find myself having to justify my OCD diagnosis by saying things like, “I TRULY have OCD,” or “I LEGITIMATELY have OCD.” As in, I take medication for it and it disrupts my life.

I opened my eyes, sleepily. Looked straight ahead. Down the hall. Confused. “Who’s the mom?” That’s the first thing that came to my mind. My mind. Mine.
Everything looked somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t place anything. I had the sense of belonging, but I didn’t know how I belonged. What was my role? Who was I?

He put his hands around my neck, gently pressing his thumbs into a notch of my throat. Demonstrating how someone feels when being choked. He asked me if I felt it. I tried to nod. I froze. He was supposed to be an ally. I came to him for help.

I couldn’t breathe. It didn’t make any sense until my therapist asked me a simple question that made me realize that finding my voice meant losing my breath.

“But Becky, I got away…”
That’s what I told her.
I had been in therapy with her for years, discussing my childhood molestation and the sexual assault while serving in Pensacola and the and harassment that followed in the aftermath. But this. This I never told her. Because. Well, because, I got away.
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