Wednesday, 15 June 2011


I didn't see it coming. Things seemed perfectly normal but people kept asking me what the matter was. Then suddenly I saw it. Just sitting there looking at me and wagging it's tail.

The 'black dog' was Winston Churchill's nickname for his bouts of depression. It all made sense when I realised that I was depressed. Then I got depressed because I was depressed. Now I'm getting depressed because I am writing about being depressed and that is the last thing you want to read about - right?

I found myself walking along waiting for the pigeon droppings to land on me. Feeling that I wanted to cry for absolutely no reason. I recognised the miserable mutt. He and I were close companions for a year or so but that was a very long time ago.

It is health issues - mine and close family which have invited the black dog in but I'm sure that half the battle is recognising it. So I'm going to stare it down, peer into it's eyes unblinking until it slinks away to find someone else to pester.

There it goes ... tail between it's legs.

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