I'm writing this while enjoying being a kind of purple colour. I'm not black anymore. I meant to write it yesterday in the middle of the black time but it would have just been a string of bile fuelled epithets and would have been uncomfortable to peruse. I know, right? Doesn't normally stop me. But the truth is I was too black to even write yesterday.
Every now and again, not necessarily on a cyclical basis, just every now and again I wake up and there he is again - Churchill's Black Dog is sitting on my chest. Actually, it's usually Fatman literally sitting on my chest. After I've heaved his girth off me I realise that no, it wasn't just the weight of an enormous cat squeezing the life out of my lungs that is making me feel so floopy, it's here again. The black.
Like a canker deep inside my soul. Like a rotten core of my being. It's always bloody there. Even with a few actual good days and a raft of average days, I can feel it lurking. Usually I can keep it at bay and stem the tide of creeping black by eating or smoking or drinking or taking drugs. OH WAIT. I don't get to do any of those things anymore because somewhere along the line I decided that maybe at some point I should have a stab at being an adult. So now I'm a nun like figure with no vices and that means few distractions when it comes to The Black.
Exercise helps. So do vegetables and sunshine. But sometimes I can't even move because of it. It's all I can do to shrug the cat off and heave myself up out of bed. A bed that isn't any comfort anyway, but at the same time it's not somewhere I want to leave. The temptation to smoke and/or find the valium/temazepam and whatever else I have squirreled away, is strong. But I don't. Because that would be stupid.
Everyone has dog days. Everyone gets on with it. Why should I be any different?
I can tell when it's back properly because I'm aware my perception is a little... off. People's faces look weird. Like everyone is hiding an evil under their skin and I can see through the masks. Like that Daphne Du Maurier short story - The Blue Lenses. Which, by the way, you should read because I'm guessing you haven't.
Case in point, I went for a walk in the sunshine. Nothing that Vitamin D can't fix, right? Especially when you have the pleasure of a three legged pooch for company. We walked through a field of sheep. They stared. And they followed me. Every time I turned around they would stop, pretend that they weren't and start conferring with each other. I start walking and they start following. I turn around and they stop. Finally I face them down and they... just... stare back at me. Massive black pools of death for eyes. I think this is what Nietzsche was on about. For a shiny split second I actually think that the SHEEP ARE COMING FOR ME. It's a beautiful blue and gold day, with burnished sunshine and pink fluffy clouds and I all I feel is the underlying menace of the sheep.
That way madness lies.
Anyway. It's over-ish. Today, I'm pretty sure I could handle sheep. Maybe. This too shall pass, right?