Black Dog

I read an article today about Winston Churchill and his black dog. Apparently Mr. Churchill suffered from depression. He called it his black dog.

I can't say as I've ever named mine. I try to think as little about it as possible. Thinking about it seems to be a trigger that makes it worse. I've lived with this long enough that I can spot most of my triggers. And if spotted quickly enough I can put in a marathon of work and often lesson or eradicate most of it. But I haven't named it. I don't want to. If I name it, it becomes tangible and real. I don't want it to be real. I want it to cease to exist.

But today I tried everything. Nothing was working. I should have known it was coming. I was tired and achy last week. Every joint and muscle in my body hurt. And I racked my brain trying to remember what I'd done to get so sore. Nothing. I could name a ton of things that might make me slightly sore in one area. But all over? Nothing. So why is it that I can be so completely blindsided by something that has happened before? Denial?

 

Taken from here.

I'm not sad. I'm depressed. There is a difference. But how do you describe this to someone who doesn't understand? They'll never get it unless they also have depression. And call me crazy, but I'd rather battle this alone than see someone I love understand from experience. Sometimes I worry about how others perceive me. Do they think I'm being rude because I don't want to participate? Are they hurt when I'm unable to confide in them? Do they notice when I'm quieter and withdrawn? Do they feel frustrated when I can't articulate how or why I'm depressed?

It's lonely. But I think I'm okay with that. I'll stay here in my foggy bubble. Because when I come out, I'll care again. And I'll love you enough to never, ever wish this for you.