Service Dog for Avery
Donation protected
I’m asking for your help—yes, you, reading this right now. I have been diagnosed with major depressive disorder and adjustment disorder with anxiety. You can read more about what led up to this diagnosis and recommendation below. It has been recommended that I get a psychiatric service dog. I’ve discussed this with my therapist and physician a lot and researched for weeks, about applying for a PSD, or a psychiatric service dog. A psychiatric service dog can help me achieve my independence once again and help me interact in public places with minimal anxiety attacks. Psychiatric service dogs are trained to mitigate symptoms of disabilities such as PTSD, chronic depression, anxiety disorders and social phobia. These invisible disabilities can be crippling. The tasks that a psychiatric service dog can be trained to do are blocking, deep pressure therapy, interrupting nightmares, anxiety and panic interruption – and I need my PSD to do all of these tasks. (You can read more about how psychiatric service dogs can help in other ways here: https://www.barktobasics101.org/phychiatric-service-dogs.)
Service dogs and their organizations, while a blessing, cost a whole lot of money that neither I nor Mom can afford without help. Costs can range from $13,500 to upwards of $30,000! These costs cover boarding, training, vet bills, etc. for the service dog. Training a service dog takes at least 8-10 months. (More information about the training can be found here: https://www.barktobasics101.org/diabeticalertdogs.)
My goal amount for this fundraiser is around $15,000 to cover all the costs for the service dog and travel to Arizona for the required 5 days of handler training for myself and a backup handler (Mom). My first goal is $3,500 which is required when the contract is signed. Once the contract is signed and the $3,500 paid, the trainers will select and purchase my service dog and begin the 8-10 months of training. Payments of approximately $3,500 are required at various points in the training with the final payment due when the training is complete. I’m asking for YOUR help so that I can regain my independence and be able to interact in public places with minimal anxiety attacks. Thank you for your donation to help a girl like me who struggles with anxiety and depression every single day. Every little bit helps!
I’d like to thank everyone in advance for donating money to this fundraiser and helping me receive a PSD. Thank you so much!
My story begins here….
In July 2019, my Mom (Trish Wall) posted a long explanation about the semicolon tattoo and its meaning on Facebook. Considering how she subtly mentioned her loved one was going through some difficult things lately, it’s easy to figure out that her post was a reflection about me. This long personal explanation gets dark and at times, the void almost swallowed me up. My hope for those who read this is that you will see that I am NOT the same Avery as I was before these events.
* * * * *
Senior year was the most exhausting year yet in college, and being an English Education major didn’t make it any easier. The fall semester wasn’t bad—yes, I was stressed about completing a three-day unit plan and a practice TWS, but compared to this past spring? That was easy. Spring semester was the time I would be student teaching, the last obstacle to becoming a teacher and getting my degree. At first, everything was going fine despite the small niggling in my mind that I didn’t want to do this, that I felt uncomfortable and anxious in front a bunch of students. I decided to ignore it, to keep going because I wasn’t a quitter just because things got tough. Well, things went downhill faster than I could ever imagine.
In mid-January, I slipped down the stairs in my dorm and nearly broke my ankle. Mom posted plenty of pictures of that horrifying and clumsy moment. I laughed about it because this would happen to me when I’m student teaching, but I didn’t realize how hard things would get over the course of the next four months. I was on crutches for the longest time and even when I could limp around on my foot, there was so much pain. On top of dealing with this injury, I still had to teach and create unit/lesson plans for my 11th graders.
I struggled throughout that entire semester, feeling more and more isolated and alone. I barely saw my friends at the dorm where I worked, which is kinda hard to do considering we lived in the same building and we always talked to each other. I would wake up at 6:45 a.m. to get to school before duty started at 7:20 then teach for most of the day or work on lesson plans until almost 4 p.m. I know it sounds like I’m being overdramatic and that’s how the real world is once you’ve gotten a job, but this was isolating and stressful. I would return to the dorm exhausted and would go straight to my room for a nap before waking up to work. My Canvas assignments were jack full of stuff we had to do on top of student teaching. Fellow classmates and I were all worried about our grades and supervisor’s observations of us.
Normally, I could handle the stress and pressure but this semester I felt like Atlas had laid the weight of the world on my shoulders. Due to my injury I couldn’t work out to relieve my pent-up energy and get out of the dorm. Writing has always been my favorite outlet when I needed to take a break from working or escape my troubles. My creativity had dried up. Every outlet I tried was either too weak or just not enough. I barely had the energy to get out of bed and go to school let alone to do my homework and planning. I didn’t have a drive anymore—I’d lost the reason why I was doing this at all.
By early March, I finally realized that I wasn’t meant to be a teacher. I went to the people I’d known since I was a freshman to help me—someone who would have objectivity and be honest. After explaining that I felt alone and isolated—that I had thoughts of hurting myself—all I received was another door slammed in my face and I was told to stick it out. I tried, I really tried, but there’s only so much a person can bend before they break. My supervisor was well-aware of my struggles and the dark thoughts I had, but nothing could be done for me. No one listened until I finally snapped and my soul was completely hollowed out.
Two days before my 23rd birthday in April was the night I had planned to kill myself—and I HAD A PLAN. After spilling everything to my Mom, I spent an entire night at the ER then was admitted to St. Dominic Behavioral Health System. Mom knew about everything since the beginning, but she didn't realize just how bad it truly was. My birthday passed in a psych ward at St. Dominic's Behavioral Systems where I finally received the help I needed. I felt isolated and dehumanized the first night I was there, but things eventually got better. I returned home that Thursday with anti-depressants and another medicine to help me sleep through the night for the first time in months. Mom and I met with my supervisor and the chair of my department, and they worked hard to come up with a solution for me as well as helping me transition from English Education to BA in English.
For many weeks after and even now, I'm still rebuilding me. I'm still trying to manage the debilitating anxiety and panic attacks, and my depression. I also suffer from horrible nightmares and night terrors. My therapist has helped me through this since I graduated and continues to give me the strength to keep moving forward. Along with my friends and family, I'm in a place where I can write once more and slowly regain the confidence and independence I once had.
Despite what you see on the outside, I am NOT okay. I will NEVER be the same Avery again. She's gone and a new me has taken her place. I'm still fragile, broken, and healing. As we've seen with famous actors like Robin Williams, a smile can easily hide the hollowed thoughts of a soul being swallowed by the abyss. I will have my bad days and times where seeing anyone in general could cause me to panic.
Depression can be a lifelong disease, but it doesn't mean I'm alone anymore like I thought I was. I have my Mom, Nana and Jenni as well as my close friends to help me get back up again and continue to live and rebuild. Even with this support behind me, I still struggle to get up in the mornings, to go outside and feel the sun on my skin, to go out and eat with friends, or even to stand in line at Walgreens during lunch to get my medicine without freezing and having an anxiety attack. My depression impedes me from wanting to do anything and my anxiety is just a giant monster that seems impossible to defeat when I head to public places with large crowds and a lot of noise. There are times I can’t even go to church without having an anxiety attack. Having such a creative and active mind, my nightmares become so vivid and real that it feels no different than being awake. I wake up screaming or gasping for breath with a panic attack rushing to the surface while I sob into my pillow. I feel like my body is shutting down, but my senses are still hyperaware of what occurred in the night terror. All of this—the depression, the anxiety, and nightmares—are why I need a service dog so I can feel safe and regain some of the independence I lost.
Service dogs and their organizations, while a blessing, cost a whole lot of money that neither I nor Mom can afford without help. Costs can range from $13,500 to upwards of $30,000! These costs cover boarding, training, vet bills, etc. for the service dog. Training a service dog takes at least 8-10 months. (More information about the training can be found here: https://www.barktobasics101.org/diabeticalertdogs.)
My goal amount for this fundraiser is around $15,000 to cover all the costs for the service dog and travel to Arizona for the required 5 days of handler training for myself and a backup handler (Mom). My first goal is $3,500 which is required when the contract is signed. Once the contract is signed and the $3,500 paid, the trainers will select and purchase my service dog and begin the 8-10 months of training. Payments of approximately $3,500 are required at various points in the training with the final payment due when the training is complete. I’m asking for YOUR help so that I can regain my independence and be able to interact in public places with minimal anxiety attacks. Thank you for your donation to help a girl like me who struggles with anxiety and depression every single day. Every little bit helps!
I’d like to thank everyone in advance for donating money to this fundraiser and helping me receive a PSD. Thank you so much!
My story begins here….
In July 2019, my Mom (Trish Wall) posted a long explanation about the semicolon tattoo and its meaning on Facebook. Considering how she subtly mentioned her loved one was going through some difficult things lately, it’s easy to figure out that her post was a reflection about me. This long personal explanation gets dark and at times, the void almost swallowed me up. My hope for those who read this is that you will see that I am NOT the same Avery as I was before these events.
* * * * *
Senior year was the most exhausting year yet in college, and being an English Education major didn’t make it any easier. The fall semester wasn’t bad—yes, I was stressed about completing a three-day unit plan and a practice TWS, but compared to this past spring? That was easy. Spring semester was the time I would be student teaching, the last obstacle to becoming a teacher and getting my degree. At first, everything was going fine despite the small niggling in my mind that I didn’t want to do this, that I felt uncomfortable and anxious in front a bunch of students. I decided to ignore it, to keep going because I wasn’t a quitter just because things got tough. Well, things went downhill faster than I could ever imagine.
In mid-January, I slipped down the stairs in my dorm and nearly broke my ankle. Mom posted plenty of pictures of that horrifying and clumsy moment. I laughed about it because this would happen to me when I’m student teaching, but I didn’t realize how hard things would get over the course of the next four months. I was on crutches for the longest time and even when I could limp around on my foot, there was so much pain. On top of dealing with this injury, I still had to teach and create unit/lesson plans for my 11th graders.
I struggled throughout that entire semester, feeling more and more isolated and alone. I barely saw my friends at the dorm where I worked, which is kinda hard to do considering we lived in the same building and we always talked to each other. I would wake up at 6:45 a.m. to get to school before duty started at 7:20 then teach for most of the day or work on lesson plans until almost 4 p.m. I know it sounds like I’m being overdramatic and that’s how the real world is once you’ve gotten a job, but this was isolating and stressful. I would return to the dorm exhausted and would go straight to my room for a nap before waking up to work. My Canvas assignments were jack full of stuff we had to do on top of student teaching. Fellow classmates and I were all worried about our grades and supervisor’s observations of us.
Normally, I could handle the stress and pressure but this semester I felt like Atlas had laid the weight of the world on my shoulders. Due to my injury I couldn’t work out to relieve my pent-up energy and get out of the dorm. Writing has always been my favorite outlet when I needed to take a break from working or escape my troubles. My creativity had dried up. Every outlet I tried was either too weak or just not enough. I barely had the energy to get out of bed and go to school let alone to do my homework and planning. I didn’t have a drive anymore—I’d lost the reason why I was doing this at all.
By early March, I finally realized that I wasn’t meant to be a teacher. I went to the people I’d known since I was a freshman to help me—someone who would have objectivity and be honest. After explaining that I felt alone and isolated—that I had thoughts of hurting myself—all I received was another door slammed in my face and I was told to stick it out. I tried, I really tried, but there’s only so much a person can bend before they break. My supervisor was well-aware of my struggles and the dark thoughts I had, but nothing could be done for me. No one listened until I finally snapped and my soul was completely hollowed out.
Two days before my 23rd birthday in April was the night I had planned to kill myself—and I HAD A PLAN. After spilling everything to my Mom, I spent an entire night at the ER then was admitted to St. Dominic Behavioral Health System. Mom knew about everything since the beginning, but she didn't realize just how bad it truly was. My birthday passed in a psych ward at St. Dominic's Behavioral Systems where I finally received the help I needed. I felt isolated and dehumanized the first night I was there, but things eventually got better. I returned home that Thursday with anti-depressants and another medicine to help me sleep through the night for the first time in months. Mom and I met with my supervisor and the chair of my department, and they worked hard to come up with a solution for me as well as helping me transition from English Education to BA in English.
For many weeks after and even now, I'm still rebuilding me. I'm still trying to manage the debilitating anxiety and panic attacks, and my depression. I also suffer from horrible nightmares and night terrors. My therapist has helped me through this since I graduated and continues to give me the strength to keep moving forward. Along with my friends and family, I'm in a place where I can write once more and slowly regain the confidence and independence I once had.
Despite what you see on the outside, I am NOT okay. I will NEVER be the same Avery again. She's gone and a new me has taken her place. I'm still fragile, broken, and healing. As we've seen with famous actors like Robin Williams, a smile can easily hide the hollowed thoughts of a soul being swallowed by the abyss. I will have my bad days and times where seeing anyone in general could cause me to panic.
Depression can be a lifelong disease, but it doesn't mean I'm alone anymore like I thought I was. I have my Mom, Nana and Jenni as well as my close friends to help me get back up again and continue to live and rebuild. Even with this support behind me, I still struggle to get up in the mornings, to go outside and feel the sun on my skin, to go out and eat with friends, or even to stand in line at Walgreens during lunch to get my medicine without freezing and having an anxiety attack. My depression impedes me from wanting to do anything and my anxiety is just a giant monster that seems impossible to defeat when I head to public places with large crowds and a lot of noise. There are times I can’t even go to church without having an anxiety attack. Having such a creative and active mind, my nightmares become so vivid and real that it feels no different than being awake. I wake up screaming or gasping for breath with a panic attack rushing to the surface while I sob into my pillow. I feel like my body is shutting down, but my senses are still hyperaware of what occurred in the night terror. All of this—the depression, the anxiety, and nightmares—are why I need a service dog so I can feel safe and regain some of the independence I lost.
Fundraising team (2)
Avery Kilpatrick Wall
Organizer
Greenwood, MS
Trish Kendricks Wall
Team member
