My Black Dog

Are you here yet? It’s the house just three down from the carpark. The one with the brown door. Come straight in. It’s open. Don’t hover by the door – come on through. Do you like the lounge? It’s been decorated recently. A lovely colour isn’t it! Yes, we do have a movie subscription. I’ll let you have a watch later if you want. I can see you looking towards the games console too. Whatever you want to do is fine – my home is your home.

Now you’re in the dining room. Say hello to the terrapin won’t you? He loves company. He’ll probably slosh around a bit to try and get food out of you. His food is on the oak sideboard there – chuck in a few bits to keep him satisfied.

We’ve got a fridge full of food in the kitchen. Help yourself. Or if not, we can always order a takeaway. I know the guy who runs the nearest chippy; he’ll get us a good discount.

You’re looking a bit lost down there, and frankly making the place look untidy. Just come up. I’m in the bedroom at the top of the stairs on the right, near the bathroom. Don’t ask if you need to use it – just go right in. There’s some new towels folded up on the shelf just above the sink. Use the good soap too. We’re not short of money here, to be honest. We’ll share anything.

And now, this is me! This is my little corner of the house. I’ve got my brand-new computer, and just trying it out. So far it is great. Touch screen – I feel so excited like a kid with a novelty toy. I don’t need to press the screen to open something up, I can use the mouse, but you know … I do it every so often just to prove I can.

The remote to my TV is just behind you there on the dressing table. Put something on. It’s a bit too quiet, and you’re not really talking much.

Oh, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable! Don’t resort to that small talk. You’ll be asking me what I think of the weather next!

But since you did ask, no I don’t live alone. There is another who lives here with me, though you can’t really tell. It’s not much company either. What? No, not the terrapin. My permanent lodger invisible, and damned hard to get rid of.

It's crawling fog which seems to follow me everywhere. It seeps under the doors, and no matter where I go I see it – like some kind of shadow, except one which is sentient and chooses the worst moments to put in an appearance.

It’s my acquaintance, for want of better word – it’s my black dog.

You look like you're expecting to see a poodle called Trixie or something. I'll put it to you straight then - it's depression.

Now you're getting it, and you didn't even notice it, did you, my black dog? I don’t suppose you would. I saw the way you raised your eyebrows then, and your shifty look from the computer to the television. Like we have these things in our lives and suddenly that means I’m happy as Larry. Don’t worry, you’re not the first.

I’ve had the whole cliched repertoire.

‘What have you got to be sad about?’

‘If you want to be depressed, try living my life.’

‘But you look happy.’

‘Have you tried to just cheer up?’

The last one was a doctor. Yes, my first contact with a doctor about my long-standing depression ended with them trying to prescribe happiness. Sure Sandra, chuck a bottle of glitter over me while humming a happy tune. That'll help. It's the equivalent of telling a patient with asthma to just try breathing easily – if they could, they would. And if I could be happy, trust me I would choose that option.

The first one, about having nothing to feel sad about, that’s what I saw you thinking when I mentioned my little “friend”, the black dog. The way you looked around, saw I had everything I could possibly desire. But unfortunately, the black dog doesn't discriminate. It can be born out of anything, any situation, and can happen to anyone. That’s the scary thing about it really.

I mentioned the doctor before, the one who said I should cheer up. Well, after her I spoke to someone on the phone. It was a mental health charity my workplace was connected with. She put it into a brilliant metaphor - imagine getting a bottle of pop and shaking it until it fizzes over. That's what it's like for people trying to cope with stress without letting it out. And then one day it just explodes, and wham - you wake up with the black dog trotting behind you, and you have no clue where it's come from. Like a stray you pick up in the streets, but one you have no desire to nurture.

Oh, sit down on the bed, won’t you? Again, you’re hovering. Might as well make yourself comfortable. I can tell I have your interest now. I don't know if I'm a sideshow freak to you, something you can witness and go and tell your friends about, or if you have a genuine interest in the black dog. Either way you're here. Might as well listen. Have a can of drink. You’ll need it after this.

Scroll back up. Cast your eyes back to the second quote there. I must laugh, and not through amusement – more incredulity. You see, the black dog isn't a one-size fits all kind of deal. Every person has their own personal limits. A threshold. Just like bottles of pop really - some you can shake and they're okay, and others will just explode everywhere as soon as you open them.

I know. I know other people have it bad. I feel terrible for feeling so down when I remember what other people have to suffer with. My Aunt lost her daughter to cancer, for example, leaving two young children behind. So, what right do I have to feel sad, when things like that are happening?

It took me a long time to figure out it was okay. It was okay to break down. It was okay to have moments of weakness. It took me way too long.

My life ... well, I think you’ll assume I’m being melodramatic if I said my life was bad. I bet so many people will look at my story and shake their heads, wondering: "What have you got to be sad about?"

Can I just say it could have been better?

I’m still in the town I grew up in. In fact, if you go out of the front door, turn left, and just keep following the path around. Walk along the desire line and underneath the tree. It’s quicker. Keep going until you’re outside the garages. Cross over. Follow the road right around to the left. You’re now in my old street. You need to keep walking – don’t give up, it is a long street I know. Keep going until you see the post box. If it’s on the same side of the road as you, you’re doing good. If not, you’ll need to cross over. Keep going for about five houses. There should be one with black stone gateposts. You’ll see a ramp leading up to the front door. There’s a holly bush on the right-hand side, which still has Christmas lights on – I never took them off when we left.

That’s home. Well it was – we got evicted. I lived there for twenty-three years with my parents, about nineteen with my parents and brother. He moved out a few years back. So many memories in that place, I’m surprised the walls can contain them.

Not all good memories though. That place is where the black dog was born and hand-reared.

Go inside. Put your coat on the hook just behind the door. Go off to your left into the lounge. It’s empty, now … it looks strange. In the alcove by the window, that’s where Mum sat on her computer. All day. Everyday. Every night. Her back to me. Turn around, look towards the radiator on the far wall there – that’s where the sofa was. That’s where I sat. Just in front of the fireplace is where Dad would kneel – he never sat on the chair, he always knelt.

Imagine the room filled. Imagine the TV just by the window, on the opposite side to Mum’s computer corner. It’s on, watching some show about music probably. The coffee table just to the left of Dad, just in front of me. He’s watching television. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. Mum is playing a computer game, she has her earphones in. She can’t be disturbed. I’m nursing a glass of cider. It’s going down too quickly, but it fills the silences.

The scene is unchanged with Dad at work – just him absent, obviously. Me, glass of cider, lack of conversation. Huh, I bet my life seems sad to you now.

Rewind several years. There’s a chair by the window, a different chair. The cat is probably sitting on the back of it watching the world go by. I’m playing on Playstation 1. That’s what I remember doing when Dad told me Nan had cancer. Incurable. The doctors thought it was kidney stones. She was sixty-two.

Okay. Enough. Go out of there now. Go to the room just adjacent to the lounge. The kitchen. It looks so bigger without Mum’s dining table! I never understood that table – we were a family of four, just three when my brother went off to start his own life. There were six chairs. We never had anyone around – Mum hated socialising. She’d shut herself in her room if we had friends around. I never understood why she had a table for six.

I’d walked through the door, like you just now, when Mum told me we were being evicted. I hadn’t even put down my bag from work. Cue Eastenders theme music.

There’s not much else in here to see, I mean it’s just a kitchen. But cross to the window, look out. Doesn’t it look beautiful? Wait for a few moments and you’ll see the sparrows. They’ll come out of the hedge to your left and flock to the bird feeder. That’s if it’s still there. Watch out for the robin as well! And the flowers you see around the pond? I grew them! The wallflowers need a cane – they’re bending over onto the path. The dogs keep trampling them.

Had enough? Head for the stairs. Imagine a bookcase there. No idea why we have that either – I hadn’t touched a book on there in so long, neither had my parents come to think of it. It just became a feature. Draw a smiley face in the dust.

First room there is the bathroom. That’s where I first learnt the glory of releasing my emotions through pain. It was like a magical portal – go into there and cry my eyes out, bruise myself, and emerge with a smile. They bought it. They always did. My little sessions once left me with a burst blood vessel on my wrist. Hurt like hell, was noticeable - they bought the lie that I'd tripped over. I began to realise I was safe, I could use that as a release.

In fact, the only thing that noticed was my dog - my actual dog, not the "black dog". This one is black, white, fluffy, a daft grin and covered in splodges. After a stint of crying in the bathroom I told myself I shouldn't have been born. Dried my tears, opened the door and there he was. My Collie. My best friend. He wagged his tail, jumped up at me, nuzzled his nose under my chin as if to say: "Hang in there".

And I did.

Sorry. I digressed.

Okay ... go into the first bedroom just next to the bathroom. That’s mine. Imagine the bed by the radiator. A nice double bed, not that I had anyone to share it with, except for the Collie and our old Jack Russell. And over in that alcove there imagine a vivarium with the grumpiest bearded dragon ever. On top of his vivarium, a smaller one - that was the crested gecko. I'm still so sure I did something wrong. He shouldn't have died so young. He's buried out in the garden.

In fact, go to the window for a second. You see the stone step there? Just to the right is where our cat was laid to rest. She was sixteen. You can't really see clearly from here, because of the silver birch tree, but just beyond, near the fence, is where her best friend was buried - the collie-cross-spaniel. They died within two weeks of each other - animals get sad too, I guess.

I think you'll be needed something stronger after this! Don't worry. We'll go to the pub next door when we're done.

Back to my bedroom, if I haven't bored you enough. I decorated here not long before we were forced out. I’m no good at decorating – you can still see it’s charred in some places where the ceiling meets the wall. A fire, several long years ago now – electrical fault. Lost most of my possessions. Clothes, my cute little hamster, the teddy bear that sat by my Nan’s bed when she was battling cancer.

That’s about it here – the other rooms belonged to my parents and my brother. Nothing worth seeing or remembering there. My brother's room became just storage after he moved out. My parent's room became a breeding ground for bedbugs. It was revolting.

Luckily they've aerated this place now - I've driven past so many times these past few weeks on my way back from fueling my car. I always see all the windows thrown open. I always think how fresh it must be inside.

That's it for the house, really.

Do you fancy another walk? A longer one? Or shall I drive?

Get in the car. It might be faster. Sorry about having the heaters on - the car gets too hot otherwise. Need to take it to the garage soon! Put on the radio if you want.

I never realised how long this journey was. When I was in school it seemed shorter.

But here we are. To the right is my high-school. It's changed the name now. It used to be "high school", now it's "academy". It's hard imagining that place as an academy I tell you!

It is strange looking up at that building again, remembering everything.

The school years flew by, they really did. I was liked by a small handful of people.I had a couple of boyfriends in school. One who threatened my brother - I vowed never to see him again. Another who moved away and broke up with me. But I was bullied a lot more than I was liked. By year eleven I'd been pushed over, tripped in the corridor, had my wrist sprained twice, punched, slapped ... just because I didn't conform to their idea of "normal". Even someone I thought was a friend told me outright they didn't want me hanging around with them. Why, I wondered? I'm kind. I'm patient. I listen ... but they didn't want me, just because I weigh a few stones less than most normal people? I can never fathom the way some people's minds work. I was called Gollum. Someone freaked out because I accidentally brushed past them on the stairs.

Eventually I went to a counsellor in school, just to talk things through, and it did begin to work - until my mum said 'Don't tell anyone you're seeing a counsellor. They'll think there's something wrong with you.'

I stopped going.

Well, I left school, and went to college.

Yes, I am going to drive you there - don't look so disappointed. You'll love it.

...

See? I told you you'd like it. I bet you were expecting one big building? No. There's loads of different departments here, all spaced out as you can see. And beyond the trees there is the golf course. There's a pathway there which leads to the lake. If you follow it around, look across, you'll see the old hall - that's where the principle is based. But imagine this, studying here. We'd joke around with our lecturers, and then when we had free time we'd go and laze by the lake. It was incredible.

And what's more, this is where I actually made friends. Real friends. They didn't use me, pity me - they liked me.

But that had to end.

Like everything I suppose.

So, my first job. At a charity shop in my home town. Went there originally to give me something to do in my spare time, improve my confidence as well. I ended up as something like a supervisor, so it did me some good!

But while I was happy there, it was while I was there things got me down. Very down. The black dog was nipping incessantly at my ankles, reminding me of all my short-falls and how crap I am at everything. How my brother has a place of his own. How he has a fiance. A child. How I have nothing. I was a failure to my parents, I was ugly, nobody truly liked me.

I wanted out. And I came close. For a moment I found myself standing in the bathroom with a glass, a pack of Wilko's cheap 20p paracetamol. I was too much of a coward though.

Next day at the shop it was quiet, we were standing around talking. The subject went to bullying, and two of my colleagues admitted to feeling the exact same way I'd felt the night before - one tried, the other had considered.

I guess you never know who has that black dog, eh? Could be the person sitting next to you on the bus. Could be the friend who makes all the jokes. The one who is there within five minutes if you call on them. The one who always tries to make other people happy. The one you push down in the school corridor. The one you call worthless. The one you laugh at.

Just ... be nice, yeah? It's not hard.

Moving swiftly on, let's just go a bit further into town. To the best bargain store around! Yes, I am biased. That's where I got my first proper job! I was there when the store first opened, so some of the shelves in there were put up by yours truly.

I was there for a good few months until budget cuts meant some of us got palmed off on other stores. I went to the same company in the next town. God, they were a bunch of immature idiots. I stopped myself from calling them worse.

I was like the unpopular kid in high school all over again. Given all the crap jobs, expected to put away a trolley full of things customers didn't want within ten minutes. Glared at whenever I dared call anyone off the shop-floor for support on the tills.

Served one of the most arrogant of the lot there one day, and I could hear him speaking to his friend. Saying: "I would have packed the bag for that customer" or "I'd go a lot faster than this if I was serving!". Felt like scanning his eyeballs with my little barcode thingy.

So I quit. Begged my old manager for my job back.

I was happier, but my glass or two of cider a night had ballooned to almost half a bottle. Only "happier", I said.

I'd started to realise that I was living within a bubble of sorts. Things didn't make me happy like they used to. The smell of grass no longer meant summer. It was just a smell. When I laughed at jokes, the smile vanished almost instantly. I worried about everything, every action I made, every little stupid thing I said.

Anxiety seemed to have weaved itself to become the leash with which I walked my black dog.

I was desperate. Desperate to prove myself.

If you don't want to go into the shop and buy anything, I'll take you as close to my last workplace as I dare. I am not going in. Not for anything.

I'll drive past it, maybe pause outside.

See there? It's the blue building. You can't miss it. Top floor, the building on the left. That's where I completely broke.

A call center.

I went there for the money. I left there for my sanity.

It was while I was here that I found out we were being evicted, and that was the icing on the cake I guess.

I hated the place. Hated it. The headphones that seemed to compress your skull. Couldn't even take them off for ten seconds without the manager asking what you're doing. Expected to give good customer service, penalised if you went over "talk time".

I'm getting a headache and dry throat just thinking about it.

I self-harmed, and not just bruises. Cuts. On my arm here, you can count them - six in all. Top of my arm and forearm so nobody will see them. I'm too ashamed of my thin arms to wear a t-shirt anyway.

One day I rolled up to work, and lost it entirely. Crying, wanting someone - anyone - to help me. I'll never forget that feeling, just needing anyone to be there. But at the same time I felt numb, as if it was the end of everything, as if I'll never be happy again. If J K Rowling was trying to personalise depression with her Dementors in Harry Potter, I'll say she got it right. It felt like a Dementor was sucking everything out of me.

But, at least my manager cared enough to realise something was very wrong. He spoke to me, and what's more he listened - I pored my heart out to this guy who was almost a stranger to me, and he just listened.

He gave me the number for the mental health charity and insisted I saw a doctor.

So I did. I got some medication.

I only lasted at that place for another month. It's all I could bear. I didn't care about being late anymore, I'd roll out of bed and get there ten minutes late. Or I'd sit with my headphones off for as long as I could without being seriously reprimanded.

And then one day I met a guy in town. He was one of those charity canvassers. He was new, I got that because of his attitude, but still we got talking. I told him I worked in a call center, he said he had done too. He said it was the worst mistake of his life. And, without beating about the bush, he said: "Fuck the money. Money is nothing compared to being happy. Just get out of there and find something else."

Now, any other person would have marched straight up to his manager and made damn sure he got fired for that language. I didn't. I appreciated it.

So not long after I handed in my notice, and actually begged them to let me go sooner.

They did.

I was with nothing else, no other job, until three weeks after.

Now I'm assistant manager at a charity shop. Amazing, huh? They don't know any of what I've told you here. They don't know I spend so much time wondering if I am capable, doubting myself. They haven't seen the scars on my arm, or know my past.

They don't know the black dog comes to work with me nearly every day.

Maybe one day I will tell them, and maybe they'll be as understanding as my old manager. Maybe not.

But now I've told you ...

And I don't even know who you are! I invited you into my house, my life, and I don't know your name. Still, I hope you stick around. You've been a good outlet for me.

Maybe you feel the same way as me. I don't know. Maybe you have depression too, and your look of surprise when you saw all my cool new stuff made you think: "Are you really depressed too? With all this?" Maybe you realised it isn't a question of strength or the good that life gives us. Because people with everything have depression too.

You're not weak if you have depression. You're not infectious. You're not worth any less. You're just a rock weathered by having to endure so much. But still, you're here. I'm still here. We'll get through this together.