An Ode to the North Star
I tried to kill myself. A few times actually. In 2013, in a drunken rage (that I don’t remember) I was remarkably close. The following morning I barged into my therapist’s office to confess. As I left school in the middle of class, and my therapist was in a session herself, she was dumbfounded by the emotional wreck that I was. Hours later, I found myself catatonic in her office, listening to her voice calmly explain to my oblivious mother that I would be placed under mandatory suicide watch at a nearby hospital. A rush of embarrassment brought me back — I wasn’t embarrassed because I tried to kill myself, but horrified that I failed. After my required time at Los Robles Hospital, my depression took a backseat to my anxiety.
I stopped showing up to my classes; I went days without any social contact; I told all my best friends I had mono and proceeded to turn my phone off for weeks at a time. I spent day in and day out with my pet doberman, Sirius, and guest appearances from family members. He was my best friend — never leaving my side, constantly reassuring me, sleeping against me each and every night, always keeping me warm. In the three and a half months following my hospitalization, my dog was my saving grace. Sirius, my darling animal, was my best friend, and I was his.
He was named after Orion’s hunting dog, the constellation Canis Major. The nose of the constellation, Sirius, is the North Star. As a non-believing Christian, and more generally a human being, I know the significance of the North Star, always pointing you homeward. It was not until post-hospitalization that I found the depth of his name, and found solace in it. In times of stress, I turned to him, as silly as that might sound. He died this month, and I am dumbfounded at this loss. He was not just a dog. He was my very best friend; he loved me unconditionally; he saved my life. He was my true North.
In the months following my last suicide attempt, Sirius and I sat on my bed, his head on my lap and eyes looking up at me, and read The Little Prince. There were pieces of truth within this children’s story that rewired my brain and inspired me back to life. Most I felt deep within me, as if they were part of me. The first chapter, in particular, resonated with me unlike any other. I now have Drawings One and Two tattooed on my wrists, covering my scars. Other parts of the story I understood, but did not feel to the same extent. The rose, in particular: its pettiness, its neediness, its uniqueness — I did not understand the real truth behind the Little Prince’s love for her. Sirius’ passing changed all that. The Little Prince described his rose with a distant, heartfelt love I now understand. “If you love a flower that lives on a star,” he said, “it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are blooming with flowers.” Now, when I look at the night sky, I look at the North star and see nothing but love.
