The black dog nips at my heels, never really going away. Sometimes it towers, casting its shadow over me. Sometimes it’s a docile puppy, never really rearing it’s head until something stirs it. And it takes such a massive effort to keep it at bay. So much effort. And I am still afraid to let people know that that black dog follows me.
I wrote the above paragraph in October 2009. It has been almost six years.
It has been a journey, and I have done quite well lately. Being depressed is not a choice, but doing something about it is – I wrote this a while ago under one of my to-do-self-help lists, and I’ve taken my own advice lately.
Catching up with friends, making the effort to go out and not be so negative. Opening up.
Coming out of the closet (metaphorically speaking – coming out regarding my writing and my depression). All these things have helped quite a bit.
I am doing better. I feel myself slipping again, but I know that it will get better, because I have seen the light.