It’s been just another one of those weeks when the black dog came calling, seemingly with more destructive energy at a time when I have relatively little positive energy. My loyal reader will know by now that I am not calling for sympathy, or indulging in self-pity. I just try to tell it like it is.
I was asked today whether I had been self-harming given that my right forearm is covered in a dozen or so deep scratches which are only now beginning to heal. My somewhat feeble answer was that I didn’t know, although I did know I had recently acquired a dozen or so deep scratches. I am no stranger to self-harm, except that mine is nearly always mental rather than physical. Suffice to say it doesn’t look terribly good.
When you are low, as I currently am, the last thing you need is some empathy-lacking idiot to add to the pain. He or she managed to come along and did just that, causing me to lose sleep and so feel even worse. I cannot be angry when people are unable to demonstrate empathy but I can’t feel terribly good about them either.
I do not know where I would be without my old friend, Mr High Dose Anti-Depressant, the best double-barrelled name I have ever met. Even on the good days, I need him (I say it’s a “him”, but who knows?) if nothing else as a comfort blanket. When I feel good, I probably feel even better than I would without him. When I feel bad, I dread to think how I might feel. Except that I know exactly how I felt during the darkest times of my life.
Yesterday, my brain was a ball of confusion, a fuzzy, impenetrable mess and my legs felt like lead. There are plenty of people I could hate for taking me to this ghastly place, but most of all I blame me. It is all my fault, I have failed in just about everything and I am utterly useless. If you have ever been a victim of clinical depression, you will recognise this. If you don’t, happily you haven’t. Work hard, dear reader, to stay away from the Black Dog.
I’m afraid we still live in a world where mental health remains a stigma and where some people who purport to understand it plainly don’t. I am older and have been in the grip of all this shit for over 40 years and I find, depressingly, literally depressingly, that little has really changed. Famous people who “come out” with their demons deserve enormous sympathy and respect for their bravery and they came out because they wanted to change public attitudes. I am not sure they did.
I can’t see that anything has really changed. The Black Dog remains the invisible illness that some, many, people believe is nothing more than being fed up. As I say all to often, I am a survivor and, thanks to the love of others, have made it through the darkness. So far.
I have lots of good experiences, truly great experiences, with my partner, my children, my family, my special friends and everyone else I have forgotten. But always, there is the feeling that I am a hopeless failure, a useless, worthless individual who has achieved very little. You might try and argue to the contrary, but you are not me.
People die from this Black Dog shit. I don’t want it to be me, because although I generally hate myself, I don’t want to die. Not yet, at least. Self-harm and self-destruction have always been an option, but the least favourable ones. Life is a long road with no real meaning. Once you realise that, things get a whole lot harder.
