My black dog. The beautiful bastard. I say beautiful because
at times my depression has let me see the world in a way that is tragically
beautiful. At some points, when my black dog has embedded its teeth into my
skull, and I have been able to drag myself away from dark tear stained rooms or
comedy central or sad iPod tunes. If I’ve been able to wonder to some place or
another that’s away from city noise and busy streets. And found myself trudging
through somewhere peaceful, I might sit and wonder if trees have always been so
incredibly majestic and beautiful. Or something like that. It seems bazaar that
I find it so difficult to find that beauty on the calmer days.
But mostly my depression is a fucking bitch. It’s a real
fucking horrible little shit. It sits there and sucks the fun out through a
straw that slurps. It’s noisy and it stinks while I sit with friends and try to
ignore it. It dissolves joy from memories. Rudely intrudes on family gatherings
and holidays. It builds walls between myself and places that are meant to feel
like home. It stands between me and jobs and friends and sometimes just getting
out of bed. It greets me every morning with a disgustingly cheerful ‘hello’ as
it slams its fat ugly ass on my bed. The fucker even makes walking hard, it
clings to my legs so I have to drag my feet. It makes a lovely shop worker look
like something from a horror film. Depression is shit. At times I’m it’s
prisoner. I’m locked up. Checked out. The bastard wants me dead.
But fuck you depression, I want to live.
I’m not entirely sure when I got this lovely pet, but I
think I was around thirteen. It was around then when people became scary. It
was around then the beast would taunt me till I cried oh so embarrassingly
during lessons at school. I didn’t purchase this new addition to my family. I
had enough pets, guinea pigs and a cat, I was happy with those. What an earth
did this thing want with me? The song that goes ‘dumb dog why are you following
me?’ from Annie springs to mind. But unfortunately despite being a feisty red
head, I didn’t want that pest. Terribly confused and full of fear I just tried
to carry on. I wish I had shouted out. I wish I had talked about it. I wish I’d
asked.
Wishing is rather foolish. I didn’t question it,
I let it grow. I feed it with slices on my arms, intoxication and bottled up
anger. I gave it a home. It’s only over ten years later that I’m finally
learning to live with it. Learning that it’s ok if I need to take a little more
time, it’s ok to take medication, it’s ok to watch Singing in the Rain seven
times in one week, it’s ok to cry, it’s ok talk about this. Just so long as I
do keep talking about it. We should all talk about it. With big fat buckets
full of honesty. Let our words shout louder than depressions piecing bark. Let
real words march through the minds of those friends and lovers and sisters and
brothers and mothers and fathers who are hiding in the dark. Let’s fight these despicable
beasts in our brains with a big fat ‘I feeling shit and I can’t leave the
house,’ or ‘I’m worried about my mental health.’ Let’s lift open our lap-tops
and google Young Minds or Mind. Let’s call our doctors. Ring our parents. Let’s
open our mouths and slam down that stinking social stigma. Let’s fight this.
Let’s fight this now.
