⚫️ When the Black Dog Visits
When the light goes dark and I fall apart, will you wait, wait, wait for me? Wait, wait, wait.
When it hurts like hell and I loose myself, will you wait, wait, wait for me? Wait, wait, wait for me. — Wait for Me by From Ashes to New
I’ve been fighting depression, otherwise known as the Black Dog, for just short of 25 years. If my math is correct — and that’s always a big if, as I’ve never been too good with numbers — that’s 10% of my life to-date. I’ve spent 10% of my life battling a mental disease that tries everyday to convince me that I’d be better off dead. That’s an incredibly heavy thought to carry around in my head.
I’ve tried my hardest over these 25 years to keep myself convinced of the fact that life is precious and truly worth living. Despite daily journaling, meditation, outpatient therapy, and a voluntary hospital stay, I’ve tried to take my life twice.
The first time was a few weeks before my seventeenth birthday in 2001. The rest of my family had gone somewhere together, and I chose to stay home to “get a start on studying for finals” — that was the excuse I gave my parents, but it wasn’t the truth. At the time, I really just wanted to be alone. I had no premeditated plans that day, but after an hours of crying and throwing up, Depression had me convinced that life would never get better, that my family and the rest of the world would be much better of if I weren’t around anymore. I pulled a nearly-full bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and took it to my bedroom where I swallowed two handfuls of pills.
I didn’t pay attention to how many pills I swallowed that day. I just know that they made me horribly ill and didn’t end my life as I thought they would. I did end up with a slight amount of liver damage, but it wasn’t enough to be hospitalized. I spent a few days feeling awful, and after that, life went on as though nothing had happened. My parents never suspected a thing, but whether that’s because they ignored it or because they genuinely thought I was simply not feeling well, I don’t know. They’ve never mentioned it to me in the years since, which is honestly par for the course in my family.
The second time was just shy of ten years later in 2011. This attempt came after the end of a relationship that I honestly thought would last the rest of my life. I was in the midst of earning my first Master’s degree at the time, and juggling major depression, outpatient group therapy, and a full semester of coursework, along with what felt like the loss of half of who I was as a person was just too much.
I felt like I was drowning and was too weak to keep my head above water any longer. Nothing was helping. I was crying constantly, not taking care of myself, and my roommate had begun to remove pills and sharp objects from our apartment. It’s almost as if he knew something would happen before I did.
I remember waking early on a Wednesday morning, just as I did every week to attend my group therapy at the hospital a few blocks from my apartment complex. I had hidden a small amount of hydrocodone leftover from dental surgery under my mattress. I stared at it for a while, considering the ramifications of ingesting the four pills that were left, when managed to make myself shower for what was the first time in a week I remember correctly. I dressed in my favorite jeans and hockey jersey, shoved the loose hydrocodone pills in my jeans pocket, and left for the hospital. On the way, I stopped for a coffee and a small breakfast sandwich. I swallowed the pills with the last dregs of my coffee and went to therapy.
About a half hour into the two-house session, I got sick. Then it happened again mere minutes later. This went on until the break time of the session. Our group leader knew something was wrong, as she’d seen this same behavior a number of times before. She cornered me and peppered me with questions. I confessed to what I’d done, and she recommended that I commit myself to the behavioral health unit a few floors up. She knew I needed help. So did I, even though I didn’t want to admit the fact. I agreed to be voluntarily committed, and she took me upstairs.
My stomach was pumped, which was an excruciating and painful process. After that, I spent four days in the behavioral health unit. The only person who visited was my roommate (who is also my best friend). He came to visit for the full few hours of visiting hours every day. Despite his calling my parents to inform them of what was going on and giving them my temporary room phone number, they never called to see how I was doing. Not once. And they certainly never made the drive to visit me.
Four days later, I was released to my roommate and we went home. I requested medical leave from my graduate program until the summer term, and focused on getting better. But that's the thing about major depression.
Most people don’t get better, maybe a but, but not 100%. According to a couple different studies, “some research suggests short-term recovery rates around 58%, while longer periods report lower rates around 17% experiencing full remission”. However, “many people with depression find treatment helps manage their symptoms and significantly improves their quality of life”.
I’ve been taking medication to help with depression and anxiety for 25 years, and that’s another thought that’s quite heavy, but for a reason that scares me a little bit. For me, depression has always been a rollercoaster. Everyone experiences this disease differently, but for me, there have been so many ups and downs. I have gone through avalanches of sadness, self-loathing, crying, and wishing I were dead. I have also had days where I felt life was tolerable, that maybe I could live with this crippling cloud of darkness that constantly hangs over my head.
The one thing I have never felt is that I’m 100% in the clear. Not once have I thought I were depression-free. I am constantly waiting, whether subconsciously or otherwise, for the next wave to come crashing down, to take my legs out from under me. The waves hit like avalanches and I can feel myself go under. I can immediately feel the mental and emotional effects, and while I’ve gotten fairly good at intuiting when a wave is coming, I’m still blindsided pretty often.
The Black Dog bites, and the cloud spreads through me like a disease with no cure — because that’s exactly what it is for me — a disease with no cure. I live in a constant and uncomfortable enveloping shroud of what I can only describe as a mixture of fear, despair, self-hatred, and shame.
Yes, there are ways that I try to combat this, try to find a way to live in this shroud, but there are times when none of that works.
Right now is one of those times.
The state of the world is enough to challenge even the most positive and hopeful of people. While I have taken a number of steps to safeguard my fragile mental health from much of the news and other negativity that spreads like a wildfire these days. This is by no means a fail-safe plan, though.
I’m muddling through, even though this wave has only just begun. Over the last couple of years, each wave seems to be more intense than the one before it, and that has me frightened. I’ve begun to wonder if I can keep weathering all of this. I want to believe that I can because I’ve somehow managed to do so before, but the fact is I just don’t know. I really don’t.
And that sinking feeling of not knowing, of no longer being able to confidently understand my own level of mental strength, is perhaps the most frightening thing of all.