Living with a Black Dog

The black dog spoke, said the worst things to me. I could hear it talk to me, taunting me as I tried to ring free from it.

The truth is, I’m coming to accept that the black dog is mine. The monster that I tried to rid from my soul, won’t be rid. Acceptance is the only path, I feel, to truly be at peace from this menace.

It’s a constant struggle — a battle. It weighs me down like the world on Atlas’s shoulders. It hurts me like a knife through the heart. Every day it picks apart my anxieties, my fears. It lays them on me, every minute of every day. Constantly, the black dog will remind me of the ridicule I’ve faced, that I deserved it for simply being who I am. It reminds me that I am not worthy of being lifted up, of being praised and celebrated, that I am a mere dunce.

Living with a black dog is like living with a disorder. Truly. You can’t shake it. You cannot pretend it doesn’t exist. But you can embrace it. You can learn to deal with it.

You can tell the black dog that today is not the day I will let you control me. You can tell it that its words are lies, fabrications. You can even tell it that it’s only in my head. However, you’re still living with it. Sadly, it is not man’s best friend. It is man’s nightmare.

A constant struggle with yourself, with your own mind. Your own head telling you that which you attribute to the black dog. You can tame it. You can pet it. You’ll never fully beat it. It’ll come and go. Sometimes it will want to play. Others, it will growl and bite. Like any dog — rather, like any affliction — it is to be managed. It’s yours. It’s your responsibility. Those around you can help you, can show you love and be by your side. But ultimately, the onus is on you to take care of it.