A year ago, something happened to the world. A fundamental shift.
And much as we’d like to pretend that the Zoom calls and great internet speeds got us through, I wonder how many of us are simply living in denial of the fact that we may be depressed.
I got my verdict a couple of weeks ago. And I feel relief, because the pet that I’m now keeping finally has a name.
This pet that I didn’t want, but got handed anyway. If this crazy Rottweiler called sadness needed company, it is in good hands.
Have you ever seen a rabid dog? I was chased by one as a child, right up until I found a voice that was louder, and screamed. One mighty scream to set the world back in order again.
The incident traumatised me, not because of the risk involved, but because I didn’t know what I’d done to make the dog so mad.
And so it is with depression.
On some days, I wake up and the dog is already growling. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. There’s no salvaging this day. The best thing to do is to get through it, somehow.
The other days are worse. The dog is asleep. I gently tiptoe around it all day, careful not to make it mad again.
But something happens- one bad conversation, one call that never came, one lunch too hurried, one coupon code that didn’t work- and the dog begins to growl.
Except this time, it is even madder.
It was asleep and it was rudely shaken out of slumber. How dare you. So it barks, so loudly that I hear it in every cell in my body.
The thing is, I cannot introduce it to friends. It just feels irresponsible to introduce them to one highly unpredictable dog. It could very well bite them.
Moreover, friends don’t understand why I’d want to keep this dog. “Shake it off!”, they say, or, “One day, you’ll leave it behind.”
Some even say, “Oh but the last time you brought home a rabid dog, it didn’t end well for you, remember? Why would you do it again?”
I cannot take it to my family. Because the last time someone brought home a rabid dog, family said, “But why did you bring it home if you knew it had problems?”
And so I keep the dog to myself. Feed it with self-pity from time to time.
On some days, when the dog is tired from all that barking, I rest. I work. I do things that I suppose people without a rabid dog usually do.
And on some days, when the dog is mellow, I take it for a walk, knowing full well that there will be consequences. But it is what it is.
Maybe, if it were visible, on a leash, people would stop to ask.
“Why do you walk this rabid dog?”
“Can I walk it with you for a bit?”
“It is time to let the dog go.”
But my particular furry companion is invisible. And so I walk it alone.
