It is no secret to those who know me that I suffer severe bouts of depression, the Black Dog of the post’s title.
It is an accurate metaphor: during the last four days an issue involving my children has caused me to feel as if some shadow was ever present at my heel, bringing with it a constant sense of dread and imminent danger, its tongue licking at all my secret sores, encouraging self-hate and self-harm.
I used to deal with “the Dog” through heavy drinking – three or four bottles of wine normally did the trick – but that is no longer an option, as three or four bottles of wine a day quickly makes a person very ill.
Instead, I have binged on junk food, and stared emptily into space, not really caring about anything – clinical depression causes the mind to go into neutral – but, because of this, I have not been able to write, which only causes me to beat myself up even more: a blizzard of words like “loser”, “failure”, “waste of space” has swirled within my head throughout the entire week.
Luckily, I have a very supportive network of family, friends and girlfriend who help to bolster me and to prick those acidic bubbles of self-hatred once I can be coaxed into vocalising them. It is only through their kindness and advice that I find strength to put fingers to keyboard and write that damned dog back into its kennel.
Until next time, you mangy cur.