I heard the black dog growling
My good friend Lane MacIntosh, who battles depression on occasion, recently wrote about it. Given that the stress of Covid has resulted in spiking numbers of suicides and suicide attempts, I thought it both timely and important to give his piece a wider audience. So I am offering it here as a Guest Blog.
Last month, I heard the Black Dog growling. The stress brought on by the pandemic, combined with the January cold, and the diminished sunlight, got to me. It was a low, almost inaudible growl at first, but it turned into a snarl, louder and more disturbing in the dark of night.
In 16th-century English myth, a black dog was associated with the devil or a hellhound. Larger than an average dog with glowing red eyes, the Black Dog was seen as a guardian of the underworld – an apparition that came in the night presaging either death, a tax audit or both. Churchill called the depression he experienced throughout his life the Black Dog. That’s what I call it too.
““I strongly recommend to anyone experiencing depression that they share how they’re feeling with someone they trust” ”
No matter what you call it, depression is a serious matter, especially now with so many of us spending so much time alone. I strongly recommend to anyone experiencing depression that they share how they’re feeling with someone they trust – a friend, a family member, a teacher or mental health professional. Yes, life is beautiful, but it can also be hard and cold.
Thanks to the professional advice I’ve received over the years (the psychology department at UNB has an entire team dedicated exclusively to me), I’ve developed ways of dealing with the Black Dog. A sense of humour helps. So does realizing that most people at one time or another hear its growls. For those who do, each must deal, in their own way, with the fear they instill.
I first heard the Black Dog growling when I was around four years old, after my dad, a hockey player, died in a late-night car accident in 1957. Often, I would awake in my bedroom on the second floor of the big concrete-block house we lived in on Henry Street in Devon and lie there for hours staring at my dad’s hockey sweater hanging in the closet.
The nightlight at the foot of my bed provided enough illumination to give the sweater an almost ghostly look. It never scared me, but it did make me feel sad. It also gave me a sense of protection and let me imagine that wherever he might have gone, at least a piece of my dad’s life was there with me.
What did scare me was the attic door and the creaky stairs behind it in the far corner of my room. What made it even worse was that I knew there was a stuffed owl on a shelf at the top of those creaky stairs. Sometimes in the night, I imagined the attic door swinging open, and that owl, furiously beating and flapping its wings to escape, flying down the stairs and out into my room. Once, while imagining this, I felt something touch my foot. Whether it was sleep paralysis, the Black Dog or something else, it was real.
It was real, too, when a few years later, while visiting my grandparents, the big, black dog next door got loose and came at me, teeth bared, snapping and growling. Luckily, I scrambled to the top of their old Buick just in the nick of time. Years later, when I learned about Churchill’s struggle with the Black Dog, the first thing I thought of was those teeth and that terrifying snapping and growling.
Over the past few years, the Black Dog’s growls have become less intense. Afraid they might grow louder and more terrifying with age, I, in my calculations about the future, often overlooked the wisdom one acquires as we lose loved ones and how that wisdom affects what we believe and how we live our lives. The more I let go of fear, I’ve discovered, the more distant and less intimidating the growls become.
A few nights ago, I heard growling again, but it was a low, almost inaudible growl. Pulling the sheets up close to my head, I started thinking about dad’s hockey sweater and that stuffed owl at the top of those creaky old steps. Grateful there was no attic door in my room, I closed my eyes and thought about that big, black dog that got loose and came at me, teeth bared, snapping and growling.
Drifting off to sleep, I remembered how happy I was when I climbed onto the roof of that old Buick.
