Black Dog Bitch

That fucking black dog has been sniffing around again. Talk about an uninvited guest. I woke up this morning and the word “strangle” came to mind. That is what it feels like. Oxygen is cut off. I can't breathe. Energy dissipates. Hope is snuffed out. Friends and family are cut off. That bitch prowls the yard, daring me to step outside. My mind becomes my prison. My thoughts and heart race. All intellectual activity is submerged in endless conversations with myself. I might say that it is impossible for you to understand if you haven't suffered from it. But that doesn't really mean anything. This is my problem, not yours. I have this reality, and you do not. It is that simple. Of course you can't understand my reality. I can't understand yours either. So we agree to a mutual lack of understanding.

Then suddenly, the black dog slinks off into the bush. Like this morning. No particular reason. (I know that is not true, but I say it anyway.) As easily as she came, she went. But alas, I know she is still out there, just beyond my senses. She waits for weakness and will come calling again. Part of me needs her. It's a fairly sick and unhealthy relationship, but perfection takes time and that is okay.

I've been reading Camus lately. It helps me get by. I find I'm not alone in living a life without meaning. It is an absurd world, and that is just fine. I must accept that I am living a life without appeal. Camus finds liberation in acknowledging this important truth. I can too.