Depression is often referred as a “black dog.”

In many cases, it’s an appropriate image, evocative and illustrative at the same time. Many people probably imagine a rankled, growling, evil beast when they hear the phrase. The problem is that as many different breeds and variations of dogs exist, so too are the myriad ways in which “depression” manifests.

My black dog is a fairly pathetic beast. If you throw it a ball, it will look at it worriedly, unsure if the ball actually wants to be played with. It’s the type of dog whose tail makes a valiant attempt to wag itself, only to be regarded with a look of betrayal, confusion and scorn.

My black dog weakens me not through pain or power, but through piteousness; It captures my attention with its big, sad eyes and lures me into a shadowy miasma of self-loathing and emotional isolation.

And that’s when the dark little voice starts whispering.

I was bullied at school. Chronically.

Whenever my teachers led the class in a round of “If you’re happy and you know it…” I sat there quietly, hands folded motionless in my lap. Clapping felt fraudulent—I never found out what the prescribed actions for demonstrating both my sadness and my recognition thereof were.

It took me years to find someone who I could honestly call a best friend. Then, after he had to move to the country half-way through grade six, my classmates took great delight in informing me that the reason he moved was so he didn’t have to be my friend anymore.

The dark little voice never fails to remind me that eleven-year-olds can be disarmingly clever.

I’ve been punched, kicked, spat on, been subjected to numerous involuntary piggy-backs, had my glasses stolen countless times and was once cajoled into exposing myself to a circle of jeering classmates. (That last one still confuses me.)

I learned about the consequences of not being part of a tribe. There’s nothing quite like trying to contact your friends only to find out that they’ve all gone on a schoolies trip without actually inviting you.

“I guess we forgot about you” whispers the dark little voice, mockingly.

Sometimes, I feel the urge to slam my head against a wall just to leave some sort of impression on the world. A sudden, violent act to let people know that I exist.

Of course, I’m not exactly invisible. I’m six-feet-nought of mad, rotund, hairy, bespectacled git. I take a negative 10 for all stealth checks. Brian Blessed is my spirit animal.

Inconspicuousness does not come naturally to me. But when the shadows creep in and the black dog starts whimpering, it becomes harder and harder to feel the impact my presence makes. The tone of the dark little voice’s catechism shifts from a whisper to a seductive growl.

“Worthless. Pathetic. Fat. Gormless.”

When confronted with proof that the people I love reciprocate those feelings, the dark little voice cranks it up a notch.

“LIES! You are NOBODY. They pity you. You are nothing but an inconvenience in their life. A fly. A pointless, buzzing distraction. Disappear. Hide. End yourself.”

The dark little voice used to rule me as I was stuck in the shadows, leashed to my black dog. My only companions.

The majority of my 20’s were spent in thrall to its ministrations, building up the conceit that—despite considerable evidence to the contrary—I was both unloved and unlovable, that I was a worthless lump of biomass.

My days started with a regular reckoning of the worthless of my life and whether or not that day would be the day that I ended it all.

But I could never do it. It would have killed my mother. I was the one who deserved to be in pain, not her.

Brush teeth, think about suicide, put on pants, repeat.

I am still here.

I can’t tell you what changed, because I don’t know that anything actually did. All I know is that at some point, something sparked a desire to live. A tiny little point of light in the darkness, burning just long enough to be noticed.

I was lucky enough to find a therapist who understood me and could see the dark little voice for what it was—insecurity made manifest, given a megaphone, preaching a self-authored dogma like some footpath prophet.

He armed me against myself, and the battle began in earnest.

And I am still here.

I wish I could tell you that the battle is over, that the dark little voice has been defeated and all is well.

But, it’s not.

Most of the time, I am okay. The periods of peace and happiness are getting longer and longer. Things are getting better.

But every now and then, I’ll trip on something and the dark little voice will fire an advantageous salvo. The battle resumes. The half-orc saves the day (naturally), and peace is restored.

Trying to excise a part of your own psyche is hard.