Homer, my fluffy white Samoyed, was meant to ease my anxiety, not cause it.

But from the day Homer entered our lives he was stubborn, manic, bossy, unwilling to cuddle, impossible to train, and beyond high-maintenance.

Not really the kind of dog you want as an emotional support animal.

I first heard about emotional support animals through a friend. To me, they seemed like a sneaky way for people to take their yappy dogs on planes or bypass apartment regulations.

Then I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.

I saw a million therapists and psychiatrists. I took Prozac, Lexapro, and Wellbutrin. I tried hypnotherapy, yoga, meditation, and Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR). But no amount of drugs or alternative therapies made it better. It had only gotten worse.

One day, lost in the vortex of trying to Google remedies to cure myself, I stumbled across the idea of an emotional support animal.

Article after article explained the benefits of animals in terms of how they reduce anxiety. They calm you, bring you back to earth, and force you outside when you'd rather live in bed.

I was sold on the idea of a furry companion—a smiling ball of love who'd wake me up on days that seemed unbearable.

Courtesy of Marian Schembari

So my husband and I found a dog — an 8-week-old Samoyed who was ready to come live with us.

Later, I talked to my doctor about getting an official prescription. I could get a pet without one, of course, but if this dog was going to be my "medicine," I didn't want to risk not being able to take it. Our apartment wasn't dog-friendly, so I also needed a note confirming my condition was real and that my prescription was a dog.

Two therapy sessions later, I had a prescription and we had Homer. He was a tiny, smiling, jolly ball of cotton. When we picked him up at the airport, and the baggage handler — 200 pounds and covered in tattoos — asked us, "Can I keep him?"

Courtesy of Marian Schembari

Our crotchety upstairs neighbor wasn't happy about the arrangement, but he eventually just ignored Homer, who would bound across the yard.

The real problems with Homer didn't start with our landlord, our neighbors, or even Homer himself.

They started with me. Three days into our lives as puppy parents, I couldn't breathe with the stress of keeping this animal happy and alive.

What had we done?

My "prescription" required midnight bathroom breaks in the cold, expensive dog walkers, and no more late dinners or last-minute adventures.

Homer, adorable as he was, demanded the care I had originally given myself. The care I needed.

Anxiety requires an enormous amount of discipline. A combination of yoga, medication, supplements, and lots of sleep are the only reasons I'm a functional adult.

Homer didn't care. He wouldn't let me sleep through the night without barking. He needed walks when I needed naps.

Soon, my anxiety got worse, not better. The dog I thought would help ease my crazy ended up consuming my life.

Every day I woke up and thought, "We can't keep him. I can't do this." But I'd watch his expectant face and my resolve would soften. I'd "think about it more tomorrow."

And then, when Homer was almost a year old, we took him walking on our local off-leash trail. The unthinkable happened: he fell off one of the trail cliffs — a 200-foot drop — and had to be rescued by the San Francisco Fire Department.

Courtesy of Marian Schembari

He'd fallen 40 feet down and couldn't climb back up. As I peered over the edge — fully expecting to find his body at the bottom — I heard whimpering.

"It's okay, buddy!" I shouted over the wind. "We've got you!"

Instead of terror, I felt the pressure of my near-constant anxiety dissolve. I was his mom, and I needed to get him through this.

I talked to him for an hour while we waited for the park rangers and fire department to arrive. I didn't cry or explode into a spasm of panicked breathing. I calmly comforted my dog, all thoughts of my own brokenness forgotten.

In hindsight, I should have done a great many things differently. Maybe I should have adopted an older dog or got a cat instead.

But I wouldn't change a thing.

Homer was at our wedding, wearing a little bow-tie, barking enthusiastically as my now-husband and I walked up the aisle. He traveled with us from San Francisco to Europe, and he sits at my feet every day, waiting patiently for his afternoon walk.

I thought having an ESA was as simple as buying a friendly companion to make me smile. But it was the act of giving him love and comfort that ultimately gave me mine.

Courtesy of Marian Schembari

Marian Schembari Marian is a writer, storyteller and brainstorm partner.

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