Living with Two Black Dogs

I have lived with one black dog most of my life. He’s not noisy or rude, just ever present. He dogs my steps—yes, I intentionally use “dogs” as a verb. If you’ve ever had a dog who has taken possession of you, you understand precisely how your every step is accompanied. You are dogged, every hour of every day.

This non-noisy, ever-present black dog has become such a familiar presence that I feel at home around him/her. I can assign no gender to this black dog, which has no physical manifestation other than my aching bones and labored steps. The invisible black dog—yes, he/she is black although invisible and non-material—manifests through my own body. I sense the breath of this black dog nearly everyplace I go and in most breaths I take and in my trudging steps and in that dizziness of heart and mind that can lap over my day. Black Dog pants right next to my face, as though to take the air that is meant for me. Black Dog constantly paces and frets, as though to use up every cell of my energy.

No matter what other people think of me or how many of them gather round, Black Dog is right next to me, closer than them all. No matter what I accomplish or how many blessings fill up my days, Black Dog stands over the entire collection, ominous and quiet, legs and chest set firmly to establish ownership of my everything.

Black Dog tries to assure me that this is companionship. But I have my doubts.

The other black dog who lives with me has only been in the house a few months. He is quite physical and vocal—with his love and with his complaints. And he follows me everywhere. He is also demanding—walk me, feed me, pet me, feed me, pet me, pet me, pet me, walk me. Now that he is in the house, my husband and I realize that we share ownership of ourselves with this beautiful beast (his name is, after all, Beau).

Yet, Beau the black dog does not dog me. His presence lifts rather than presses upon me. When Beau Black Dog is in the room, my heart feels lighter, and I breathe more easily, and I laugh often. Whereas the ever-with-me Black Dog takes away my words, even my thoughts, Beau Black Dog inspires all sort of words and thoughts. Black Dog takes away my life, and Beau Black Dog infuses it with more liveliness.

I am in love with Beau Black Dog, and I cannot imagine life without him.

However, I struggle to exist with Black Dog without resorting to hatred or despair or violence.

Really, it is a shame that Black Dog is a term applied to depression. In a way, it fits—the ever-presence, the dogging of steps, the dark and silence and lurking. But the actual dogs I have known stayed close without suffocating me. They gave and gave and gave. Black Dog takes and gives nothing in return.

Very soon I will visit a doctor and hope for a humane way to eliminate Black Dog from my life. I feel apprehensive about this. Will I still be myself, with that lifelong presence gone? Will I know how to walk through a day lightly, without that constant pull at my steps? Will I miss the company of the dark and quiet and sense of everything lurking? We’ll see.