black dog

All posts tagged black dog

I can’t say yet that I have a Black Dog skin rug, but I am very close to it.  Depression doesn’t stand a chance where love can shine in.

After a week of fear, rejection, and sorrow, the bottom had to drop out.  The terrible thing about having a full clinical depression episode is that it cannot be rushed.  Once it has reached a tipping point where logic and rational thought don’t matter, it has to run its course.  (This assumes that there is no medical intervention.)  The anger drives, the sorrow drives, and the Black Dog navigates.  If it gets its way, it will guide you to ruin, to divorce, to death.

This is not rhetoric or hyperbole.  Suicide is not “pretend death”.  It’s possibly the worst kind, certainly so for the survivors.

The Black Dog fought hard.  With my Shield of Compassion and my Sword of Love (which isn’t nearly as naughty as it sounds), I held my ground.  I answered only with honesty and love, I spoke only from my heart (even when I shared my pain), and I opened myself up to true vulnerability.  The Black Dog bit me, even drew blood, but I was undeterred.

I want my husband more than it wants him.  Of this, I am certain.

The bottom fell out, and it seemed that the end was nearing – and not in a good way.  I called in the cavalry (I waited as long as I could), and they arrived in time.  Husband says that there was no need, he wasn’t going to do anything, but how could I know?  It was still the right answer.  (It is always the right answer.)

The doctors were idiots.  They didn’t even try to help, but at least they kept him overnight.  I spoke to them myself – this is clinical depression, this is serious, he needs some help – but they weren’t interested.

And here is where the ransom was paid:

My husband was left at the hotel without a ride, a phone, or money, wearing only a t-shirt and flip-flops – on the Day It Snowed In Texas.

He walked from the hotel for over 20 miles to our home. That was nearly eight hours in the elements.

Along the way, he met a few people, some of whom helped him with small gear against the cold, some of whom listened to his story.  Through the ice and snow and bitter cold, he walked.  Through the rage and anger and bitterness and sadness, he walked.  Through the shame and fallen pride and humility, he walked.

When the doorbell rang, I almost couldn’t answer it, terrified that it would be the police coming to tell me that he’d managed to finally end it all.  I did, of course, and here is my husband, falling into the door, unable to feel his toes.

In that split second between seeing him standing there and wrestling him inside, every bit of hurt and anger I had was immediately replaced with relief and near giddiness that he was alive – regardless of a missing toe or two.

(He did not, ultimately, lose any actual toes.)

And here is how I know the ransom was paid in full:

During our arguing, we agreed to see a doctor – each of us. He is keeping this appointment, for himself rather than for me.  Yes, this is our accord, and we must do this to stay together, but this is his choice now.  As I treated him for mild hypothermia and frost nip, he did not shrink away or claim to be unworthy of those ministrations; neither did he demand them as a right.  He apologized, and in his eyes, I knew every single thing he was apologizing for.

And I forgave them all without hesitation.

Before you cry foul on my behalf…

There is a distinct difference between a truly malicious abuser and someone who is suffering from clinical depression. Yes, things happened that he was not proud of, but I have done things in the throes of the Black Dog that I am also not proud of.  That is the nature of the Black Dog, to turn you against yourself and to force everyone away by whatever means necessary.

If you do not fight the Black Dog, if you allow it to perpetuate its lies about your worthiness, you can become a true abuser.  There is a core lie that says that we, the chemically depressed, are unlovable, and anyone stupid enough to love us is too stupid for us to love.  It is a vicious cycle that feeds on itself until something more powerful than the lie intervenes.  If nothing gets to us, we can slip past that threshold.

But, if you are willing to own your mistakes, if you are willing to grasp the true knowledge that no mistake can make you unworthy of love, then there is hope.  If you are lucky enough to have a partner who understands the difference between the True You and the Black Dog, you will already have a pathway out of the darkness. It is up to you to walk it, but that can make it a lot easier.

When I feel the Black Dog coming, I remind myself of these things, reading them in a mantra:

  • I am not my illness.
  • I am greater than the sum of my parts.
  • My worth is unchangingly positive; it cannot be decreased by my mistakes nor increased by my success.
  • I am stronger than the Black Dog; if this were not true, it would not have to lie.
  • The Black Dog doesn’t know the truth, and cannot tell it.
  • I embrace that the Black Dog is part of me, it is not the True Me.
  • I am the I, the Self, the Chooser.  I choose to let darkness pass through me.
  • I choose to let the darkness be; it is not my identity, it is only the dark.
  • I choose to be stronger than my illness.
  • I deserve love.  Nothing I do can change that worthiness.
  • However, I do not deserve to be an asshole.  Nothing I feel can justify that attitude.

Feel free to use them for yourself, however you like.

<3

We’d been getting the threats for a while, though they started out quiet.  Little comments, passive-aggressive remarks, and then a minor blow up happened, then another bigger one.  The resolution of that incident was not enough, though.  Even though solutions were attempted (some worked, some didn’t), it was as though we’d made no response at all.

The Black Dog of Depression had returned, and it was not going to be denied again.

I have feared its return ever since he stopped taking antidepressants last year.  In fairness, they helped his mood, but he was tired all the time.  Simple things wore him out, and the doctor just said “exercise more”.  That wasn’t really an option – exercise depleted him even faster.  He ran a 10k (trying to get that “exercise”) and slept for a full two days.  Later, he described it as “not feeling good, just not feeling anything”.  He had been more engaging, though, and passionate.  And then he’d sleep for more than fourteen hours and wake up feeling exhausted.  Instead of finding another doctor, he quit taking them.  He stopped going to therapy, too.

The Black Dog started laying its final traps sometime around the beginning of September, maybe before that around mid-August.  He had a fit and destroyed my art room while I was trying to build it – which was my fault because I tried to point out that he was destroying my art room?  More fights happened, little ones, big ones…  I got him to see a therapist with me – his therapist.  Unfortunately, this guy is worse than awful and refused to call out the Black Dog at all.  Instead, all the problems were a direct result of my ADD, and if I’d just take medication, everything would be fine.

Except we didn’t have insurance at that moment, and medication scares me.  I’ve always handled my issues in other ways, and with remarkable success, as long as I know what they are.

But this was not about medication or not for me: this was exactly the material the Black Dog needed to trigger his big scheme.  The Black Dog told my husband that I didn’t want to get better, that I was just playing along.

Thanksgiving was sheer hell for me.  My husband asked for a turducken, and that sounded like fun, so I started looking for one.  None of them came wheat-free, so I decided to make one.  I looked up recipes, I got everything put together and set up, and while it took literally three days of cooking (and cleaning, and working at my actual real job) to get the meal ready to serve, it was worth it.

No, it wasn’t.  Okay, maybe it was.  Everyone else loved it – his mom and his brothers and the rest of the family – but him?  I didn’t even get a “thank you” or a “that tastes great”.  He went to bed early, leaving me to clean up in addition to all the cooking, ignored me viciously, and then just made shitty comments whenever it was brought up.

I have never felt so dejected and hurt in my life.  Thanksgiving, the day we’re meant to examine our gratitude, and I cried myself to sleep yet again because the man I created this brilliant feast for couldn’t even give me the fucking time of day.  He got up from the bed when I went in there to go to sleep, and then played video games all night, crashing on the couch.

He did that for weeks.

Christmas wasn’t much better, except that the kids were there – his and mine.  The fights were horrific, and I had to stand him down when he tried to leave with the boys.  I’ll take a punch rather than let him put the kids in the car while he’s that angry.  I thought we’d negotiated by the end of that scene some kind of cease fire, some sort of opening statement for peace talks, but it was a ruse.

As soon as the kids were all gone again, the Black Dog came back even harder, snarling, dripping ichor-like saliva, reeking of decay and putrid gangrenous rot.  The work that I’d been doing, the adjustments I’d been making, the things I’d been building were literally impossible goals.  They were designed to create perpetual failure on my part, and not because my work would never be good enough but because my husband would never be allowed to see them.

The fucking beast says that I don’t love him, that I never cared, that I only ever wanted him for material things.  What it tells him is that anyone stupid enough to love him is beyond worthy of respect, is too stupid to love.  The Black Dog knows how to play both sides, and knowing its game does nothing for me.  I can see the lies that it’s telling him, but it’s already undermined his faith in me by ruining the beautiful things, by tainting the little acts of love and passion that we shared.

On New Year’s Eve, the last device was sprung, the last line crossed.  Through the pushing and screaming, he’s looking at me with these eyes that are desperate, begging for relief, begging for anything to save him, tears streaming down his face.  There is so much pain and agony in there, so much tragedy and sorrow, and even though I have the right medicine right here, I can’t get to him, I can’t reach him.  The Black Dog has covered their tracks too well.

It took him.  He’s gone.  I don’t know where he is, but I keep getting “helpful” messages like where to sell the board games or how to finish our D&D campaign.  “You get everything left in the house, it’s all yours.”

I don’t want everything in the house.  I want my husband back. I want my Thanksgiving back, and my Christmas.  I want our co-op video game sessions and our board game nights and our goofy jokes we’d send each other all day.  I want those kisses back, and that touch… oh god, that touch, the only one I’ve ever received that calmed my soul and woke me up all at once.  That touch is home to me, a home I might never see again.

I want a fucking Black Dog skin rug.

This also appeared on the Good Men Project, December 2016.

Throw a proverbial rock somewhere on the internet and you’re going to run across at least one essay trying to tell a non-depressed person what it feels like to have depression.  It’s not just feeling sad all the time or having no energy, it’s a complex emotional state that is defined more by its self-perpetuation than exclusively by what emotions are experienced.  (I know, I know… blasphemy.)  Maybe it sounds callous to say, “Okay, we get it,” but seriously – we do.

Yes, I know that many, many people who suffer from depression would like their loved ones to know that they can’t just “snap out of it”, that it’s not about “adjusting attitude”.  Most people these days are in such a state for whatever reasons that drugs are heavily indicated.  It sucks.  I’ve been there myself, and I know how rough it is.  I really, really do.

But…

There’s a whole other side of the story that seems to get left out.

The Black Dog

The best description of clinical depression that I’ve ever seen is the Black Dog analogy.  Imagine that this emotion is a large shaggy black dog that has a particularly pungent air.  It follows you around, sits on your lap when you’re trying to get close to pretty much anyone else, and actively interferes with life.  It eats your food before you have a chance.  It flounces around at night and keeps you from sleeping.  It sits on you during the day, keeping you from getting up and being productive.  Even if you manage to leave the dog in another room, you can still smell it.  It’s still there.  It’s always affecting you, anytime, day or night, even if sometimes aren’t quite as bad as others.

I make the differentiation between “clinical depression” and “situational depression” deliberately.  Frankly, there are sometimes when, yes, you have every reason in the world to be depressed.  You got fired from a job you loved for reasons you don’t understand.  A very close and dear loved one died.  Your job and living situation sucks balls, and there’s no real clear pathway to making it better.  As the wise man once said, “Before diagnosing yourself with depression, make sure first you are not merely surrounded by assholes.”  That is situational depression.

Clinical depression is when, for all intents and purposes, everything around you is great (or at least not awful), but you just can’t enjoy it.  Maybe it’s a projection from the past coloring this moment, such as with PTSD.  Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance.  Maybe it’s a little bit of both.  The point is that, for whatever reason, you are unable to see anything except the dull grey darkness, occasionally punctuated by fits of anger or guilt or shame.  One friendly moment does not a cure make, and efforts to “snap out of it” are often fruitless.  Nothing that made you happy before works, and everything tastes bland and distant.

It doesn’t just suck for you

The Black Dog sucks to live with as a constant companion, I know it.  You know what else sucks?  Living with someone who lives with a Black Dog, especially when they refuse to acknowledge it.

Imagine hanging out with your friend and having this huge smelly nasty wet beast taking up three-quarters of the couch while you’re trying to have a conversation.  It doesn’t just sit there, no: it fidgets and it whines and it constantly gets between the two of you.  You try to point out to your friend that it’s really hard to talk with this ridiculous dog in the way, but they say, “It’s not a big deal, just ignore it, that’s what I do.”

Ha effin’ ha.  No.  You’re not just ignoring it.  You’re complicit in its game to consume you whole.  It’s isolating you from the people closest to you, and you seem to be letting it.  To my gentle readers: don’t jump down my throat just yet.  I know, some people are awesome about listening to feedback from loved ones and recognizing that maybe they’ve sunk further than they thought.  I’m specifically talking about the scenario where someone is reeking of nasty wet dog fur all the time and they make every excuse to ignore it.

“That’s not wet dog smell, it’s just the trash that wasn’t taken out.”

“I’m not pinned to the couch right now, I just really want to watch this ninth hour of ‘CSI’ reruns, again, in case I missed something.”

“I don’t really want to snuggle right now, I really have my hands full with this do– I mean, I’m not in the mood.”

The absolute worst part is that it’s a talking dog, but it only speaks vague-truths and lies.  It dresses up the slightest detail to be the biggest deal, it ignores critical information, it hijacks entire conversations if they look like they might be productive… and by “productive”, of course I mean “contributing to working through the depression”.  It speaks for the person it’s stalking, and it says really sh*tty things to their loved ones and it whispers back to its person even worse things.  (I named my own Black Dog “Bad Voice” for exactly this reason.)

Let’s say it’s you that has the Black Dog.  Here’s what your loved ones experience:  You no longer take part in anything that requires effort.  Your cycle of insomnia and lethargy completely remove you from any kind of family or social life.  If someone does manage to get you involved in a social event, it takes you so long to recharge from that experience that you’ll miss the next two or three opportunities if you can.  You say really fucking awful things to your S.O.  The dark thoughts in your head that you think are “just thoughts” influence your decisions and set you up to look like a proper asshole.  You beg off when people are supposed to rely on you.  You get really selfish over stupid things.  You ignore the things that were more precious and important to you before.  All of your emotional investments are turned upside down and everything that you ever loved is called into question.  Everything is left for someone else to carry, and you don’t seem to care if things get done or not.

If you’re really, really lucky, your S.O. will be understanding and compassionate, but if you’re actively ignoring the Black Dog, how far do you think that’s going to take you?  How patient can they really be and for how long?  If your S.O. knows you’re depressed, knows about the Black Dog, that buys you time, but it doesn’t buy you forever.

No one wants to be in a relationship with a person that they can’t touch or talk to or be intimate with.  No one wants to choose to sleep with a revolting matted malodorous Black Dog.  Some people do anyway with the faith that it’s really only temporary.

I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty.  I’m pretty sure you’re already there and probably live there.  I’m telling you this because one of the most common lies that the Black Dog tells is that you don’t matter, that your actions or your presence don’t matter.  You have no impact on anything around you, and if anyone wants you around, it’s for what you give, not what you are.

If you knew how much the Black Dog steals away from the people who love you, would you fight it?

It’s probably never going to go away, but it can be tamed

Again, this is coming straight from personal experience.

Once you have a Black Dog, you’re not going to get rid of it.  I’ve come to think of mine as a “canine of variable size and shade”.  If you focus on getting rid of the Black Dog as the “victory scenario”, you’re setting yourself up for failure.  In fact, it’s probably the Black Dog telling you this, that the only way to be happy again is to get rid of it, but that’s not strictly true.

Imagine now that the Black Dog is actually an important and vital part of your personality, but because it was injured at some point, it spun out of control.  The way through is not to get rid of it but to tame it.  It’s trying to tell you things, and while those things are dangerous and destructive, they can’t resonate with you unless they have a tiny little core of truth.  The trick is to find it and understand what it means outside of the context of the dark words the Black Dog speaks.  Sometimes it’s that your fly really was undone the whole time you were on stage in front a thousand people.  Sometimes it’s just a need to bolster your confidence.

Open your mouth and talk.  Any therapist will tell you that the most important step in any kind of recovery is to actually acknowledge the beast and talk about the feelings.  BUT, you have to remember that they are just feelings.  If they were facts, they would feel totally different.  Black Dog might try to tell you that they’re facts, but Black Dog doesn’t know any facts.  (Black Dog is a liar, remember.)  Talk to a counselor, talk to a lover, talk to a parent, a best friend, anyone.  Preface with, “I don’t need advice, I just need to get this off of my chest.”  If your talking partner is clever, they’ll know that this moment has to be about you – not about them, and not about the Black Dog itself.

Trust your loved ones.  If someone is calling you out on depressive behaviors, pay attention.  Black Dog is an abusive partner, and relationships don’t get abusive all at once; they ease you into it.  Sometimes it takes someone else pointing out what may or may not be okay to trigger recognition from you that, hey, you haven’t bathed in a week and when was the last time you had an actual meal.  The very fact that someone was willing to ask if you’re okay already points that they care about you.  (I promise, it’s not the week-long shower-less funk motivating the question, this time.)

If you don’t think you can trust anyone else, turn to a blank page.  Get the thoughts out of your head and onto the paper to see if they are really worth considering.  Most of the time, once you’ve done that two or three times for about twenty minutes each, you’ll find that you can think of at least one person who would be willing and able to listen, or you’ll at least have a better understanding of your own thought processes.

Not gonna lie, it’s really hard.  The single most difficult thing I have every done was force myself to get up off the couch and make the Black Dog stay behind – and I’ve had multiple natural childbirths.  As I pointed out at the beginning, the very nature of clinical depression is that it is self-perpetuating.  It can come up with thousands of excuses to justify itself, but in the end, they are only just excuses.  The good news is, if you can just break out once, get a little exercise in once, let yourself be cuddled and snuggled, the next time is going to be just a little easier.  It’s still not going to be a cakewalk, but it won’t be as hard as the first time.

And if you still can’t get the dog smell off, fix your nose.  By that, I mean talk to your doctor about medication.  A lot of times, you’ll only need meds for a short period of time so that you can adjust your perspective while you learn better coping mechanisms.  No one on the planet is suffering from a “Prozac deficiency”.

Finally, please remember:  you’re not less of a man/woman/winner by asking for help, you’re more of a human.