“It’s okay not to be okay.” – Namaste Café
Depression, melancholy, down in the dumps, the blues, S.A.D. (Seasonal Affect Disorder) or Vitamin D deficiency – call it what you will – for years I have struggled emotionally this time of year. The days are short and often cold and gray; the nights are long, dark and even colder. I can’t seem to get warm, even on a sunny day. My heart feels like it’s coated with ice; I wonder if I’ll ever feel warm sun on my face again…
Meet my Black Dog – the Black Dog of Depression. Winston Churchill made his Black Dog famous most recently, but it turns out the history of the Black Dog goes way back. In British and European folklore, influenced by Greek and Roman mythology, black dogs are harbingers of death or emissaries of the Devil. Several 18th Century writers wrote about their Black Dogs and “the Black Dog is on his back” was once a term for melancholy.
I named my Black Dog some years ago, after all attempts to fight him or ignore him or conquer him or reason him away failed. He’s a wily dog, persistent and stubborn, unwilling to deter from his annual schedule of spending early January through late March with me. And, like a real dog, when left uncontrolled, he became the alpha/ boss of me - almost larger than life.
When I read about Churchill calling his depression “The Black Dog” something clicked. If an important intelligent prime minister found some success in putting a face on his depression, naming it his Black Dog and learning to coexist, so could I. And so, I stopped letting the Black Dog control me and I took control of him.
Not only did I let him slink onto the porch of my S.A.D. melancholy mind, I invited him in, gave him a place to lie by the fire and eventually agreed to foster him – temporarily. Like all dogs, he seemed to respond positively to me taking control this way, and since we’ve come up with this arrangement, he’s much gentler on me.
I’ve always had dogs, often too many at once, and black is my favorite canine color, so I like to think of my depression this way. My Black Dog lies around the house, always near, ever keeping a watchful eye, but these days he barks only occasionally and I can often ignore him. When he’s hungry, he laps up a little of my weak, S.A.D. energy. Mostly, he just naps contentedly, snoring loudly, moving his feet as if in a dream, running after whatever it is he runs after once he’s left me. Sometimes on a particularly dark, cold, sad-ish night, my Black Dog whines softly and thumps his tail, as if to say, “It’ll be alright.”
And, he’s right. After all of our time together, I know it is temporary. We have learned to coexist. Our relationship has become an easy, if not so pleasant one. I accept him and he stays in his place. And, as predictably as he appears, he’ll lope off again, once the dogwoods bloom and it’s warm.
For years, I resented that Black Dog. Why did he have to torment me and always so predictably? None of the remedies for depression or melancholy or S.A.D helped and those Vitamin D supplements had no effect. What lesson did he have to teach me? What purpose did he serve?
Then, it occurred to me that my Black Dog may be teaching me to deal with adversity like any old dog does – face each day, each step, each physical challenge with consistency, determination, and optimism.
As bleak as this day may seem, there are daffodils blooming outside, bouquets of light, and the birds don’t stop singing, even in the freezing cold and their feathers remain bright. Each day offers some promise, even if it’s only that we are one day closer to spring and the Black Dog’s departure date.
This year I thought I’d dodged the Black Dog’s bullet altogether. Here it was, late February and there’d been no sign of him. I was beginning to allow myself to consider the possibility he might be gone for good. But then that bitter, bitter cold last week descended and even though I only lost power for a few hours, had plenty of food and blankets, and only one frozen pipe - that cold got the best of me and in my Black Dog came.
This year, the gloom is gentler, hanging lightly over my head. I’m able to keep better track of my many blessings; I’ve started telling the Black Dog about them. He seems to like listening. Maybe, like me, he’s tired of being depressed. Maybe he’s finally ready for spring…
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