October 22, 2002

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  Black Dogs.

  
  

  
  I battle with depression as some of you might already know, or suspect. Oh it's not something that I face daily, as some of my braver friends do, but it is something that rears its ugly head on a fairly regular basis.

  
  

  Stress triggers it. Anxiety triggers it. Uncertainty triggers it.

  
  

  Someone, somewhere has characterized depression as  the 'black dog'. It is a black dog, a dog that is constantly crossing your path and looping and circling around you until it brings you down and gnaws away at your self-esteem. I've been ignoring the threatening growls  for a couple of months now. After all, I don't have time to be depressed, there's too much going on.

  
  

  But it's not something you can shake off. Ever since I was a little girl, predating my adolescent hormones, I have sensed the dog circling and known that the battle can only be delayed, not staved off. As a kid, I stayed in my room every minute possible, and slept it off. And when it passed, it passed not because of anything anyone did, but simply because it was time for it to go.

  
  

  How does it start?

  
  

  It starts with a vague feeling of anxiety or unease.

  
  

  Then that vague feeling coalesces into a hole in the middle of my stomach, that won't go away no matter how much I eat, or exercise or take 'brisk bracing walks'. I can ignore it, I can will it away for a while, but it always returns, stronger than ever.

  
  

  And then the storm hits. Perhaps some incident or a group of incidents triggers it. Incidents that normally would have me bounce back and keep going. But not when the black dog is waiting. Then suddenly, my anxiety has a face and a name and it all looks like fear and hopelessness wrapped up in a black shape that sits in my gut and gnaws at me every minute. It becomes a yawning maw of hopelessness and inertia and deep sadness, swallowing all the light.

  
  

  The hopelessness stems from the fact that I think I should be able to rise above this, to function normally and to get through my day. And for the most part, I can. Not for me the days in bed, or the household that screeches to a halt - my pride won't let me become debilitated. It's important, you see, not to look weak. After all, other people face what I face and don't go under. What is wrong with me?

  
  

  So what you get is a woman bobbing genteelly in the surf, waving gaily to those on the shore, while underneath, her arms and her legs are paddling wildly to stay afloat. Whose husband doesn't want to know, and whose child is too young to know and whose friends treat any hint that something isn't right by a quick change of subject. Depression is embarrassing. Depression isn't like being injured physically. In that case, people know the right things to say, the right things to do. But a depressed person looks normal. And to anyone outside my life, my life looks okay. Not perfect, but okay. Flowers, a card or a hug won't fix it.

  
  

  Inertia. Nothing will help, nothing will banish it. It goes in its own time, when it choose to go. It can disappear on the ugliest of winter days, when the rain is pouring down and I have $2 in the bank. It can returnlike lightening, when it's the height of summer  and I am sitting on the beach, helping my daughter swim. I am powerless against its whims.

  
  

  The sadness. It's hard being sad on your own.

  
  

  It's harder still when there always seems to be something goin on that needs me.

  
  

  
  
  • My unborn child. 
  
  
  • My toddler.
  
  
  • My husband.

  
  

  When situations are happening that need attention.

  
  

  
  
  • Selling the house.
  
  
  • My pregnancy.
  
  
  • My husband's issues at work.
  
  
  • Finances.

  
  

  See? No where, is there a slot that says 'ME'. And everywhere are things that threaten to drown me, and pull me under if I let myself think about them for longer than a moment.

  
  

  No quick fixes. No drugs, because I am pregnant, and in any case, there is a big part of me that rebels against medicating my emotions. They may be awful, but when I have been on antidepressants, I felt like a shadow.

  
  

  No therapists. Therapy for me, has always seemed lie the height of self indulgence. I hate paying someone to listen to me. besides, therapy costs money, and money is in short supply right now. I'd rather buy food and clothes, than sit in a chair, sniffling into Kleenex. And it's too hard to look at things. As I said, I survive and get through by not thinking too hard, by not examining my life too closely. I am terrified that, should I start to put my life under the magnifying glass, it would be as bad as I secretly think it is.

  
  

  So all I can do is  kick the black dog until it retreats. And try and make sense of it.

  • 5:17 am
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