Black dog

It’s back. Churchill’s ‘black dog’. After a hypomanic whirlwind of energy and insomnia, depression has, once again, settled into my bones. It was inevitable.

An exquisite sadness coats me. A mournful heartache. It saturates. It’s hopeless and it sinks into my core. A physical chunk of pain that knots my stomach and chokes my throat. I don’t want to talk. I have no desire to smile. I entertain no appetite. I traipse around, no spring in my step. Speech is slow and monotoned. A dullness blights my eyes. My head is too heavy and rests in my hand. Decisions are impossible. Nothing is worthwhile and I am too defeated to even cry. The pace of life grinds down and falls into cold, damp shadow.

A constant inner pain that mocks my sanity, my resolve.

And in the sanctum of my diseased mind I rail against the gods and curse my DNA. This obscene fate that has befallen me. A co-worker tells of a young child, riddled with cancer, a brain tumour, painfully clinging to life. Horrendous guilt rises in my throat like bile. I disgust myself. At days end, I skulk home and creep into bed. Ashamed. Despairing. Wretched.

I know the only cure, the only relief from this torment is death. But, right now, I don’t want that option. Alternatively, a nice little round of blitzing shock treatment would fry the daylights out of my mind. But I don’t want that option either.

So I do what I have to do. I try to keep going. One foot in front of the other. Its neither pretty nor dignified. But the bottom line is, I don’t have the luxury of giving up. I am my only life raft. That, and I’m just plain stubborn.

So I drag myself kicking and screaming through life. Always in search of my silver lining, or a tiny piece of beauty to inspire. To make it all worthwhile. To take me into tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that.


Say what you mean, and mean what you say

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