Dog or not?

I am considering whether having a dog to chase off the Black Dog of depression would be a good idea. I live alone and the company would be good for me, I am a dog person 100% when pet options are considered – a pet needs too be big enough to give a decent cwtch (cuddle/hug). A dog would force me to surface, to walk, to feed. Pets are known to be good therapy, but is that a fair reason to inflict myself on one? Is it selfish?

Why does anyone have a pet? I suspect it is always selfish, for company, to placate the kids, sometimes even for a status symbol if it is one of those fashionable types. That doesn’t necessarily stop them being deeply loved and cared for members of the family.

There are practicalities of course, can’t be a puppy as not mentally up to the housetraining, needs to be happy to be left with others if I have to be out all day, and okay if sometimes only gets the garden instead of a full walk.  And I do have a network of people who would help when needed.

A rescue dog – two lost souls helping each other?

Or just a mad idea?

Getting in a spin...

This has been a week that has been spiralling out of control.  I have expensive bills for fixes in the flat, ongoing damp and the tenant leaving.  I have been upset and frustrated in work, over tired and apathetic with the Black Dog prowling around.

Yesterday the washing machine broke, the clothes stayed soggy, the Dog was growling, I had been busy all day and still needed to prep for Sunday . 

Today, after being awake half the night, I finally dragged myself up and running late went straight for the car, de-icer was empty, back to house, discovered the kitchen floor was swimming from dripping clothes, ignored it, found spare de-icer and finally left.  And that was just the morning!!

All week I have been sliding towards the hiding under duvet stage, the rapid onslaught of things beyond my control, and control is the real issue. Tonight I am bouncing back – why? Because I gained control over something.

I decided I couldn’t afford a new washing machine, or even an expensive repair, so searched the web and decided to pull it out and see if it is something simple – and it was. The fan belt had fallen off and I was able to put it back on, screw the back on again and spin the soggy clothes.

There are plenty of things I can’t fix and issues overwhelming me, but one victory gives me hope that other things can be faced as well - I even got the dishes washed that had been piling since Wednesday.   

I am still over tired, still feeling like wading through treacle to get anything done, but I am looking out not down – all because I got the spin back!

Name that Dog....

Today it is grumpy Great Dane, not a roaring or aggressive animal, but a presence that is too big to ignore and if sitting on top of you it is hard to shift and get out of bed to face the world.

Churchill made the ‘Black Dog’ euphemism for depression well known and I found the pictures of  Matthew Johnstone using the image incredibly helpful back when I was at my worst.  I began to refer to ‘doggy days’ when I have had tough days, but there is a huge variety of those so a friend started to ask ‘what kind of dog?’

There are days when it is a little yappy dog – annoying, noisy (ideas in the head about my inadequacies) but actually small enough to control and ‘kennel’.

There are days when it is a border collie – amiable enough it seems yet somehow still controlling.

I still have occasional Rottweiler days, but also days of the calm lap dog – small enough to control, but still present.

Today though it is a grumpy Great Dane who has had its paws on my shoulders pinning me down and it has taken until now – teatime – before I achieved anything (and that is still in my dressing gown. As there was no-where I had to be I call this my day off for the week and try and catch up tomorrow. I am blessed with the freedom in this job to do that, and am thankful.

Christmas - a season survived!

The week before Christmas I was dragging myself through each day. If I hadn’t arranged – and advertised – for the church to be open each day, and being too stubborn to force my mad ideas on the already over busy members, I wouldn’t have got out of bed at all. As it was making it into clothes for the 5 min walk around the corner to open up for 11 o’clock was a massive daily achievement. And once upright and moving I was able to get some other important things done – the Christmas home communions.

I would have beaten myself up if I had not done them, but that one-on-one being with people and keeping the professional face on cost me all the resources I had left. Christmas Eve services were on auto pilot, and Christmas morning having not been able to sleep, I finally did waking only minutes before I was due to be at church!

I spent the remainder of the day with some church folk, but where I could be me, not the minister. It was great to just slot into their day and so different from the stressed version I would have at home. I was occupied enough to be distracted from my pain without any expectations or eggshells, and emotionally overwhelmed to be included in presents not just from hosts but other guests, ok so the alcohol helped too.

Then a week with family, it is hard to be fully open about my feelings with them. They either don’t get it or over react. Their normal rhythm is hard work for me, in lots of little ways I can’t explain, and would offend them if I tried, life there grates at me and when this low...  I suppose a lot of my coping with life is linked to having control of my own space – what I eat and when, not facing disapproval if I don’t get dressed and stay in PJs, not having to defend having one glass of wine at a celebration dinner when rest are on Shloer.

And when I do let on that I am so fragile the fuss is that I am ‘working too hard’ as if depression is directly related to working hours. I accept that stress affects it but it is not that simple. And if they can’t help then there is little to gain by sharing the pain, I am worried about them, worn down physically, emotionally and mentally themselves caring for my Nan who has Alzheimer’s. There again I have nothing to offer them either, so it was a case of retreating earlier than planned back to my own domain. A couple of rest days here has been very good for me – as long as I have blinkers to the chaos of abandoned Christmas service props.  I may even get those cards and letters written...well, only maybe.  

When I look back at what I wrote a few days ago at my parents –

I have a black dog. His name is depression.

Over the years we have got used to each other, adjusting to life together. At first he seemed in control of my life, dragging me this way and that. But with help I got him under control, we both learned that I was the boss in this house. And most of the time that is true, he may bark and make a nuisance of himself for a while but I can get him by the collar and send him to his bed.

But every so often he fights back and is on the brink of overwhelming me. Now is one of those times. For the first time in a long time I can feel the depression reaching into my mind as well as my emotions. I have learned that despite the reality of the ache I feel it is the illness talking, it is depression distorting my perceptions, like a fuzzy image that blocks out the positive and sees double of anything vaguely negative. That awareness is the dog’s collar, the means by which I keep control when he tries to drag me where I don’t want to go.

But the last week or so I have had moments where my mind is missing the grip on that collar, where I start to believe what depression tells me.  I am sure that this too will pass, but begin to wonder what damage will be done on its way.

I am glad to say things have moved on from that – I have a grip on myself, tired, numb, in neutral, yes. But in agony, no. Not today.

A new year? Yes, but as always it is made up of lots of New Days. And Tomorrow is always one of these.