For years I’ve employed the metaphor of “The Black Dog” to refer to my mental illness because it creates an image in my mind that helps me explain and talk about my depression. I even have a blog – one I haven’t written anything in for quite a while – called “Taming the Black Dog.” It’s been a useful way to envision my depression as something I despise and fight against, sometimes nearly losing, and yet it’s ultimately inescapable. The point is, however, that the Black Dog is simply a metaphor for my mental illness, depression.
Last week, Donn told me he would kill the Black Dog, and it shook my world. I didn’t think it could be killed, only managed. Depression has been as much a part of my life as living and breathing and struggling to survive, and when Donn said he would kill it, I was skeptical, but I wanted to believe him and trust that he knew something, had some weapon, could pull out some strategy that could actually erase the Black Dog, depression.
So yesterday, Donn killed the Black Dog. He looked me in the eye, declared he was going to kill the Black Dog, pantomimed grabbing the Black Dog by the throat, strangling it into submission, killing it, and throwing its corpse to the ground. The Black Dog is dead, and I accept that. The metaphor is no longer applicable.
But depression isn’t that easy to kill.
Donn killed the Black Dog. Depression isn’t an infection that can be cured with antibiotics; it’s not a cancer that can be eradicated with chemotherapy and radiation; it isn’t a gangrenous limb that can be severed in order to save the rest of the living body. It’s more like diabetes, a condition that requires constant monitoring and adjustment to manage and survive. Depression may sometimes go into remission, and heck, maybe even sometimes it’s overcome with time, support, and much effort. But you can’t just choke it to death an toss it aside.
Donn killed the Black Dog. The metaphor is dead, but for a brief time I had a glimmer of hope that Donn had some sort of magic weapon to kill what the metaphor stood for. If it were as simple as choking depression into submission and tossing it aside, I – or someone else – would have done it years ago. I wouldn’t have been hospitalized so many times, had so many breakdowns, had ECT, tried to kill myself, or created a metaphor to help explain and understand it.
Donn killed the Black Dog. So what? The long road to managing my depression still stretches ahead, challenging and relentless, regardless of the metaphor I employ. I might learn to manage my illness; I might even overcome it someday, but the Black Dog is dead.
Donn killed the Black Dog. So what?