I have a Black Dog, and his name is Depression.
In a foul mood, down in the dumps, dejected, gloomy, desolate, a blue funk, despondent, feeling low…
There are many words to describe a state of unhappiness, but only the term, The Black Dog, captures depression’s particular combination of attributes.
My own Black Dog is a very loyal companion. He’s been a part of my life now for going on thirty-two years or more. Sometimes he sits in the background, and I hardly notice him. Other times he is a constant presence by my side, suffocating me with his love.
For many years I thought I had finally managed to cage him for good. Oh, he was still there, and I could still hear his growls and his barks, but it was fine.
He was safely locked away in his cage.
He couldn’t hurt me anymore.
The problem was, sometimes I gave in to all those barks and growls, and I fed him.
Rule Number One: Never feed the Black Dog.
But it’s difficult not to. He can be so damn insistent.
Towards the end of 2012, I started feeding the Black Dog on a regular basis. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even aware I was doing it.
Not until it was too late, anyway.
Wednesday, June 12th 2013, sometime around mid-morning, and the Black Dog erupted out of his prison. He’d been rattling the bars for a few months by now. And with all that food I’d been giving him, he’d simply outgrown his cage.
I had what I can only describe as a mini-meltdown. It mainly involved bursting into tears in front of my work colleagues, and then fighting the urge to go and find a dark corner to hide in.
I was in no condition to do any work, so I went home, and booked an appointment to see the GP. By the following morning I had a prescription for Sertraline, an anti-depressant, I was booked in for counselling, and I had been signed off work for two weeks.
Great, I thought, we can get this sorted.
Fat chance.
The Black Dog was out, and he had no intention of going anywhere soon. He’d missed me.
Oh, and all that time I’d been feeding him in his cage? Yes, he’d grown BIG.
Although I did not know it at that point, I was not to return to work for almost six months.
The summer of 2013, the Black Dog spent a great deal of time in my company. He liked to whisper in my ear, tell me that I was no good, I was a complete waste of space. My family and friends? Well, they’d be better off without me, to be honest.
I took to repeating those statements, muttering out loud to myself, “You’re a fucking waste of space, you’re just a complete fucking idiot,” and other, equally enlightening platitudes.
I lost all enjoyment of life. Spending time with my wonderful family became a terrible chore. I did my best to put on an act for the boys, especially, but the mask slipped sometimes, and the best thing I could do then was go and hide in the bedroom.
I lost the ability to think clearly. The simplest decisions became agonizing, potentially life changing problems, for which I had no answers.
I couldn’t write anymore, and for a while I couldn’t even summon up the energy to pick up a novel, and read.
My anxiety levels shot up. I had a constant churning in my stomach, worrying over…well, nothing actually. I just worried.
I found it increasingly difficult to spend time with friends, even close ones. Anytime my wife and I got together with friends, I just sat mute, unable to think of a single contribution worth making to the conversation going on around me.
Sometimes I would find myself wondering which building in Stourbridge was the tallest, and had the easiest access to its roof. After all, if I was going to leap off it, I wanted to be sure that it was high enough to do the job of ending my life properly.
How terrible it would be to wake up in hospital, realising that not only had I made a complete fuck up of my life, but I couldn’t even kill myself.
What stopped me from pursuing these thoughts to their logical conclusion?
My family.
Despite the lies the Black Dog liked to whisper into my ear, I knew my wife and my two boys needed me. That if I listened to the Black Dog, and acted upon his insidious falsehoods, their lives would be changed forever.
But it was difficult to ignore him, especially in the middle of the night when I was the only one awake, had been for hours, with no chance of drifting off to sleep in sight.
Even on holiday, lying on a beach in Brittany, the sun’s warmth on my face, I found it difficult to escape the Black Dog. He liked to lie beside me, snoozing. His presence alone a constant reminder that I was an idiot, a complete and utter fuck up.
I mean, come on, was there really any point in me prolonging my miserable existence on planet earth?
The summer of 2013. Not the best summer of my life.
In my next post I’ll talk through some of the steps I took to pull myself out of the valley I was in, and the help that I had doing so.
The Black Dog is not back in his cage, yet, but I have learnt how to keep him at a distance. And, strangely enough, I have learnt how to value his presence in my life, too.
If you recognise any of these thought patterns or feelings in yourself, please, please go and get help. See your GP, or talk to a trusted friend or family member.
The Black Dog doesn’t need to be your constant companion, either.
By the way, the inspiration for this post, and the illustration at the top, come from this brilliant book by Matthew Johnstone -
The link takes you to Amazon.
And, to be completely transparent, although the links to my own books on this blog are affiliate linked to Amazon, the link to Matthew Johnstone’s book is not, and I receive NO money if you purchase his book after finding it through that link above.
