The black dog of depression


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  1. Just had a varient of this conversation tonight.”Do I tell our guests I’m deep in depression and my jaw is killing me from stress clenching or just play out the best I can” you know which one won…


  2. Very sharp cartoon. As I’ve always been an open book and pretty much incapable of hiding my emotions, when I’m really effed up it shows. But I can pass as non-depressed fairly well, because my sense of humour doesn’t actually wane until I get really, *really* sick….


  3. I feel like this sometimes. Pretty sure I have depression, but I feel like I am just complaining so I don’t want to see someone about it. Either that or gas…it could be gas. Oh, I also use humor to try and hide it. :)


    • Oh humour is the way to go! It masks the depression, so although it’s not exactly the ideal cure… it’s got me out of a lot of horrible situations.

      What’s best for you is what will work. If you feel you need to see someone… I know it’s hard – one of the hardest things to do – but it may just help. Or perhaps you’re putting it off because you’re not convinced it’s the right way to go. If you do have depression, I hope you find the answer.


  4. Pingback: The Black Dog | I have Fibromyalgia

  5. Pingback: Black Dog | I have Fibromyalgia

  6. Reblogged this on Chopping Potatoes and commented:
    As we crafted the pieces of our imagined lives, looking forward to our marriage, family, and beyond, my husband and I followed this idea of the perfect dog. His name would be Rufus, inspired by a back-bone slipping, soul-thrumming blues song about a hound dog by one Rufus Thomas. A shaggy, black, hulking mass, his own bark would be his calling card, “Rooof-us”. We pictured him playing with our future children, leading us down wooded paths, cozying up by the fire.

    Ironically, we got just what we were asking for.

    There is a black dog that lies at my feet while the children play; a dark shadow that trails my every step; even one who crawls in beside me while I sleep.

    Only his name is not Rufus.

    Depression is not the companion my husband and I envisioned accompanying us on our life’s journey. And I didn’t envision me as its sole caretaker.

    It can be taught to heel. It can be kenneled or crated. But it is still a wild animal; a living, breathing thing. And like a wet dog on a rainy day, its smell permeates the air long after its left the room.


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