Depression. Winston Churchill called it the little black dog that worried his pant leg. He was right. I know it all too well. Suffered with it for most of my life to one degree or another. Like Churchill's black dog, it never goes away, just stops stops tearing at your cuff quite so hard. But still it's there, waiting, growling low. It's held me back in the past, had me down more times than I can recall. Wanna talk about down? I can tell you all about down. How far down do you wanna go? Cuz I've been down there. Almost to the bottom, if there is one. Emmy Lou Harris sang, "There's only one problem with the blues when you got 'em/You just keep dropping cuz there ain't no bottom." The bottom comes when you decide to end it, to check out early, to cut short the ride, to shuffle off this mortal coil. I've been close. Too close. Stood at the edge of the final abyss, looked down, and paused. Why? A voice in my mind, a thought, an urgent plea. It said, "What about your kids? What will they think of you? How will they remember you?" Then I stepped back, turned around, and began the long climb back up into the light. It's scary, and I was helped, no doubt about that. Otherwise, I wouldn't be writing this today.
Worst thing are the people who think they know what's best for you. You get the "just-shake-it-off" crowd, telling you to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, never looking close enough to see that you don't even have any boots. Wankers! You can't just yell at someone, tell 'em to snap out of it, to straighten up and fly right. That's about as effective as throwing rocks up in the air and telling them not to fall. Try it. They land with a resounding thud. So what helps? God helps. Truth. Can't help it if you don't believe in Him, but He helps. Not drinking helps. Odd how many depressives turn to alcohol - the most readily available depressant on the market - to wash away their blues. But when you're hurting, all you can think of is stopping the hurt any way you can, even if it means drinking yourself into oblivion. What else helps? Work helps. Good, honest, hard, backbreaking, sweat-like-a-pig work helps loads. So does just getting on top of things and staying there. People can help, if they understand, if they're kind, if they love you for you and not for what they need you to be.
I don't have to deal with it very much any more. I worked myself up and out of all of it a while ago. It's still around though. It hides in the rocks and brush, up under the shingles, between the cracks in the floorboards, in the folds of the curtains, in the inside pocket of your old jacket. When all of the stuff of life gets a little too much, if you aren't careful, watchful, it'll seep out and tangle itself around your feet. Next thing you know, it's sitting on your shoulders, clawing at your hands, pulling at the corner of your eye. It wants you to shed a tear, just one. Don't do it. It knows it'll have you then. You'll hear it laughing at you. "Made you cry," it smirks, and you're walking around the rest of the day under one of those lead aprons they use in the x-ray, each step a labor.
Yesterday was bad. It started on Saturday. By Sunday afternoon, I was dropping into it. But it passed, thanks to Michelle. She talked to me about stuff. She said something funny. I smiled. Then I laughed. She pulled me back out of the darkness, helped me remember that I belong in the light. She's a tonic for my soul. Can't be blue for long with her around. And I ask God for help. It always comes. Never a miss from that department. Strength flows down from above, and I'm able to stand beneath the load again. So I'm better today. Woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. Another day and the rest of my life in front of me. And the sun is so bright on the leaves and grass. Who needs that little black dog anyway?
Worst thing are the people who think they know what's best for you. You get the "just-shake-it-off" crowd, telling you to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, never looking close enough to see that you don't even have any boots. Wankers! You can't just yell at someone, tell 'em to snap out of it, to straighten up and fly right. That's about as effective as throwing rocks up in the air and telling them not to fall. Try it. They land with a resounding thud. So what helps? God helps. Truth. Can't help it if you don't believe in Him, but He helps. Not drinking helps. Odd how many depressives turn to alcohol - the most readily available depressant on the market - to wash away their blues. But when you're hurting, all you can think of is stopping the hurt any way you can, even if it means drinking yourself into oblivion. What else helps? Work helps. Good, honest, hard, backbreaking, sweat-like-a-pig work helps loads. So does just getting on top of things and staying there. People can help, if they understand, if they're kind, if they love you for you and not for what they need you to be.
I don't have to deal with it very much any more. I worked myself up and out of all of it a while ago. It's still around though. It hides in the rocks and brush, up under the shingles, between the cracks in the floorboards, in the folds of the curtains, in the inside pocket of your old jacket. When all of the stuff of life gets a little too much, if you aren't careful, watchful, it'll seep out and tangle itself around your feet. Next thing you know, it's sitting on your shoulders, clawing at your hands, pulling at the corner of your eye. It wants you to shed a tear, just one. Don't do it. It knows it'll have you then. You'll hear it laughing at you. "Made you cry," it smirks, and you're walking around the rest of the day under one of those lead aprons they use in the x-ray, each step a labor.
Yesterday was bad. It started on Saturday. By Sunday afternoon, I was dropping into it. But it passed, thanks to Michelle. She talked to me about stuff. She said something funny. I smiled. Then I laughed. She pulled me back out of the darkness, helped me remember that I belong in the light. She's a tonic for my soul. Can't be blue for long with her around. And I ask God for help. It always comes. Never a miss from that department. Strength flows down from above, and I'm able to stand beneath the load again. So I'm better today. Woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. Another day and the rest of my life in front of me. And the sun is so bright on the leaves and grass. Who needs that little black dog anyway?
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