I
have a black dog...his name is depression...
He's
probably lurked in the shadows one way and another for most of my life...from
the night time terror of dreams of being picked off by a sniper, to the fear of
crowds and gatherings that I carried with me to this day, starting at the
Commodore Hotel in Stonehaven...my sister can tell you the story...
In
my earliest years I lived afraid of him. He robbed me of peace and made me
terrified for my personal safety. I was scared to think about him and never
talked about him. He would disappear, sometimes for a long time but always came
back, always showed up when least expected and least welcome.
In
1988 he slunk back into my life...skulking on his belly...growling and snarling
low and menacing. It seemed like he chased everyone else away. I remember vividly
waking on that first Sunday of Advent. The day held good
things…Church…Christmas Carol practice with the Sunday School…morning tea with
friends…Advent promise and hope. Except that I struggled to breathe as this
big, black dog draped himself across my body, pinning me to the bed. His huge
weighty paw pressed down so hard on my head that my efforts and energies were
concentrated on breathing, thinking, moving...no room for anything else except
for the effort of getting up and carrying on. And I did…we worshipped…sang carols…I
worked hard to find hope and promise but on that
day, as I seemed to stand completely alone in the midst of a hall full of
people, it was too much...too hard...not worth it...
That
is a story for another day and time...and maybe even for a different me to tell
it. But the upshot of the story is that much work has been done to put
that big black dog on a really short leash...get him some training...learn to
be his handler and not have him jump up and paw on my life at will...
It's been hard work.
I
thought that he was gone for good when I was in my 40’s. Anything that I’ve
done in my life that’s been worth anything, I did in my 40’s. I felt ALIVE
then…I took risks, I was occasionally brave, I tried things and I felt as if it
was the time when I came in to my own and embraced LIFE…
All
those quotes about living your best life and life being ‘…one wild and precious
thing…’ really rang true…a move from black and white to colour…I loved it…and
life seemed to love me back. The more I said ‘yes’ the more abundantly I
was…blessed, really. Meaning. Purpose. Love. Challenge. Joy. They all abounded.
I thought I had shaken the black dog. That he had lost my scent and just
wandered off. But it seems that I’ve been wrong about that.
He’s
back...
I’ve
caught shadowy glimpses of him off and on for a couple of years but this year
he began that rumbling, menacing growl…only just audible but with an enormous
capacity to distort and confuse and now, as the year draws to a close I can
hardly hear anything but him. He’s a howling, raging wolf of a creature and he
has me howling and raging too.
The
white noise of him…
The
overwhelming, suffocating presence of him…
The
weight of him robs me of peace and stillness and worth and joy.
The
brick wall of him, blocking all feeling of love (and I know that I am loved…people show and tell me this in many ways but
they just can’t seem to get around him)…and joy and peace…
Having
once chosen life I find the world collapsing small and scared.
I
am mean…doubting…paranoid. Barely able to appreciate anything or anyone good or
true or beautiful and yet irresistibly drawn to them, drawn to comparisons with
them and coming out on the deficit side.
I
am split open to the bone, the wound washed with stinging salt.
I
am balanced between truths and contradictions…teetering on the brink, reining
in impulsiveness…trying to stare straight ahead to the horizon.
I
am exhausted.
So
why am I writing this?
When
it’s been bad before it always felt like my secret. I lived on my own through
much of it. Drove through the night to escape it. I was at great pains to
ensure that no one really knew. Because I was ashamed. I had a good life…why
was I depressed? I should really just pull myself together…
The
Black Dog feels like a major flaw in my character.
If
anything, it’s worse now…so much of my life is as I had dreamed it. I love and
I am loved. I want for nothing. There is meaning and purpose…there are
opportunities for fun and laughter…I have friends and colleagues…
What
do I have to be depressed about?
Well…nothing
really…and yet I am…
So
I thought that if I wrote about it then at least it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.
I’m
trying to understand what’s happening. I’m looking for an end in this great
tangled mass of string and I’m trying to unravel it steadily and with some
order...trying to put the dog in his basket.
This
particular post has taken a couple of weeks to write. I started it partly in
response to a comment I heard about how depression isn’t a real mental illness…that it’s easier to live with than some kind of
psychosis. I don’t necessarily disagree with that but I do also know how much
it requires of a person to continually chose to make life enhancing decisions
in the face of the snarling or suffocation of the Black Dog. To keep on
choosing life when every bit of evidence you think you have suggests that you
are not worth the choice requires some kind of grit…it is real enough when it’s
happening.
I
wanted to say something about how hard it is to live with someone who is
depressed. I wanted to acknowledge my beloved Richard in this.
To
have your best thoughts and your love batted back to you…to live with the tears
or the sullen silence or the wracking self-hatred and doubt…to ride out the
howling anger…to come to the realisation that it really doesn’t matter how much
you care about the person who is depressed, they
have to care too…
That’s
hard and heart breaking…and Rick…I’m sorry that I’ve brought this to your
door…but I am thankful beyond words that you make it OUR door…
I
wanted to write because I see all this stuff about Mental Health awareness,
particularly around anxiety and depression, and I just realised that it wasn’t
about somebody else but it was about ME…I’m not exactly sure why yet but that
seems like an important insight…
But
mostly, I think I wanted to write because I needed to reach out in some way. I
don’t want or need advice. Please don’t send me your favourite tips. And don’t
tell me that you think I’m a nice person…it really doesn’t help. But just know…know
that the days can be a struggle…know that my heart is often heavy…my thoughts
are often preoccupied and gloomy…know that I never think that my work is good
enough or that I am good enough. Know that I need to have the lovely things
pointed out to me.
Know
that I have this Black Dog. His name is depression.
http://youtu.be/XiCrniLQGYc
