canis familiaris

"Black Dog" was (Sir Winston) Churchill's name for his depression, and as is true with all metaphors, it speaks volumes. The nickname implies both familiarity and an attempt at mastery, because while that dog may sink his fangs into one's person every now and then, he's still, after all, only a dog, and he can be cajoled sometimes and locked up other times. (Chance, Sue. MD, Chance Thoughts 1996,http://www.healthieryou.com/exclusive/chanceth0196.html)

There is so much going on in my daily life, and I forget that there are bigger things than me and my problems in this world. I cannot even begin to grasp the simple pleasures of a quiet evening, a beautiful sunset, and all the other joys that make living possible. Once in a while though, I do feel the pulse of a gentle trade wind or appreciate a wonderful Fettucine Lombardi (pasta al dente with fresh English peas and thinly shaved prosciutto in alfredo sauce). Evening breezes often ruffle my hair and edge me forward to a better day or a night which puts a special blessing of sorts on it all. A glass of red wine after a pasta orgy also kicks it up a notch. Anyway despite such glorious things, I’m not able to rely on my average writing skills to fully the describe the feelings which tie me up in mental double knots, forming a strange tapestry I only know of as my obscure life.

A place where I go to deep within resides near a vast wasteland of emotions, centrally located somewhere between the heart and mind, and it's littered with footprints from the traffic of my past. I recognize some of them, others I don’t; many I intentionally ignore. Buried deeper within the prints are the torn memories of pictures from past loves, past mistakes, and eternal regret. Pangs of tangy remorse mixed with a dash of sweet hubris in a whiskey highball often ruin what could’ve been the perfect mood or the perfect life in an imperfect world.

I recognize depression in other people quite easily but my own face wears a transparent mask when it comes to dealing with Churchill’s “black dog.” The dog is a friend, nowadays. Some days I kick it, some days it bites me. No matter the pains, the abuses, the self-medication, which the professionals say lead ultimately to self-destruction…no matter…we are master and slave, slave and master; we are one. And as long as I don't keep its collar too tight or its leash too short, we maintain our unique relationship, mutually deny our imperfections, and maximize our co-habitation agreement to its fullest as allowed by state and federal laws.

I wish my black dog would run away on rainy days, however. Impossible though because that fucker knows me all too well! But, of course, that's where the pasta comes in handy. Ciao bella, moto-fucker.