“Depression hurts. It’s the “black dog” of the night that robs you of joy, the unquiet mind that keeps you awake. It’s a noonday demon that only you can see, the darkness visible only to you.” –  Depression and the Human Condition.

 

 

The black dog I hope always to resist wrote Samuel Johnson,  and in time to drive, though I am deprived of almost all those that used to help me… When I rise, my breakfast is solitary; the black dog waits to share it; from breakfast to dinner, he continues barking…”

According to Wikipedia, the black dog is a supernatural, spectral, or demonic hellhound originating from English folklore that has also been seen throughout Europe and the Americas.

Why am I writing about this? Because the Black Dog came to me today and sits beside me.

Like Johnson, I always resist the black dog, a  British demon spirit called The Gytrash (or Guytrash). But he comes when he wishes. He has much more power than I do.

The black dog is a death omen of Northern England that haunts in solitary ways and takes the form of a horse, mule, and cow. It was popularised in folklore by its mention in the novel Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë.

Writers are well acquainted with the Black Dog. When they are seriously depressed, they say, ” The Black Dog has come to sit by me.” I have a white dog who sits with me; she is never depressed, but I can’t honestly say the same for her human. I know how to be depressed. The Black Dog used to come and sit by me often; he appears much less frequently now, but when he does, the world turns black.

He came today. There was just too much painful stuff for me to absorb.

I work hard to foster light color and hope because that is what I feel. But I am also all too human and can’t stay up all the time. Several things converged on me today, and they just brought me down. A New York-based corporation has purchased the Mansion, and I am concerned about the residents and staff. I know nothing about the owners or their intentions.

Still, I know that Wall Street investors have been gobbling up assisted care facilities, moving the residents, and recruiting more affluent residents.

I can only hope this isn’t one of them.

 

My fear of this struck me as I sat laughing with Maria and my meditation class. I’ve been working at the Mansion for years; that place is a cornerstone of my life. it taught me what it means to be good.

I need to be hopeful and patient and not make assumptions without any basis.

Beyond that, I am haunted by the thought of my sister; I don’t know where she is or will be or what has happened to her, but I do know she had a breakdown and is no longer in contact with me. That’s where I need to leave it and where she wants to,  but it hurts. I can’t help her any longer, but I can’t stop loving her and thinking of her.

Where is she, I wonder, and why could I never manage to help her? I hope and pray she is where she needs and wants to be. I have to move on with my life.

My brain injury and concussion wore me down; I admit that. A month later, the symptoms are fading steadily but not wholly gone. It is exhausting to hurt.

It has worn me down a bit. The doctors say to be patient; it’s almost over. Spirituality is my path, it is where love and compassion and truth live.

I can’t seal myself off from the horrors of humanity. I don’t mean to put it last, but the news from the Middle East and Washington is unbearable, as is the fighting, feuding, and hatred that seems to surround our country when anything of meaning occurs. I miss the days when we could unite without rushing to our labels and judging.

We are a nation drowning in grievance and self-pity.

No one is allowed to express their feelings. All feelings are targets for someone to attack. That is tiring also and discouraging. How can we live together if we can’t talk to one another?

I am not generally pessimistic, nor have I lost hope about my life, the world, or our country.

I have suffered from severe depression, and once in a while, the black dog shows up. He used to have his own bed.

It would be a lie to say I am always cheerful and happy. However, I am more comfortable and truthful than I have ever been. I am also doing small amounts of good to make the world a little better than when I found it, and that has given my life true meaning. The point is to keep improving; perfection is not the gold at the rainbow’s end.

I am fulfilled in my life. Today, I had the most beautiful talk with my daughter. She said she followed my own love of reading and gave it to Robin. She wanted me to know it.

She says she tells her daughter what I told her when she was five.

I told her I couldn’t buy her everything she wanted or demanded, but I promised to buy her a book whenever she wanted one as soon as I could get it. I kept that promise.

She took me up on it. Reading has been a seminal grounding in her life, and now, she says, Robin is reading every night and is far ahead of most of her fellow students in school. Robin devours books like popcorn, she said.

So does she. So do I. So, as it happens, does Maria.

I give everyone I love books whenever they want or need them, and I will continue to do so to the end.

Emma thanked me for giving her this gift so she could pass it on.

She had me nearly crying.

Maria just returned home from visiting a friend, and she understands the black dog and what he means.

We will talk about him tonight and beyond. He will go away- he always does- because there are so many people to visit. Then I’ll have the love dog, the white dog who never abandons me.

A longtime friend of mine stopped speaking to me after a mild disagreement. I suspect it was about politics, but I’ll never know. It was nothing close to a fight.  I understand the angry fevers sweeping through the country. I think that was the last straw that called the black dog to come and sit with me.

The blog is meant to be a peaceful and warm place, a refuge, and I can’t quite fathom what I did to bring the black dog to my door. But then, there is so much about the world and my own life that I can’t fathom.

Thinking of today’s world and the awful mess in Washington drained my reserve. When I think about it, I begin to heal.

I am learning that I am also a good person, trying to do good in my life to the best of my ability. That does not make me a saint or promise me a perfect life.

The black dog has no attention span, and I don’t have much of a one. Tomorrow, life and love go on. I’ll be there.

I’m learning that courage and decency do not come from the absence of pain and trouble; they come because of it, with it, and all around it.

Today, going to the Mansion, passing out those books, and getting that call from my daughter restored a portion of my humanity and self-esteem. Tonight, I’m going to give thanks.

Thanks for today.

Thanks for tomorrow, a new day.

Thanks to my new family.

Thanks for our daily bread.

Thanks for the rain and the moisture it brings to a parched earth.

Thank you for the honesty and understanding that brought me growth and fulfillment.

Thank you for the animals that bind me to nature and life.

I am thankful for my wife, my blog – my voice to the world – my writing, and my photography.

Thank you for showing me what I can change to improve.

There is so much to be thankful for; if there is a God and he or she is listening, are you paying attention?

I often wish I could give my thanks to a God, as so many people do.

Today, I decided to give it to the black dog:

Thank you for reminding me to feel hopeful, joyous, and grateful for what I have and what I have lost.

Dogs have always been good for me.