The Black Dog chewed a hole in my brain

I have a Black Dog. His name is Depression.

Sometimes, when he is fed enough darkness and isolation and idleness, he gets strong enough to drag me by his maw. 

The first time that happened, I found a hole that he had dug for me. Almost like a grave. He drags me listless and tortured to the edge, where he waits for me to fall.

I was tired.

I almost did.

Family and friends called out. I was trapped in this hole in my brain and could barely hear them, could barely hear them above the slavering of the beast’s jaws. His eyes are of delight and deceit.

I was falling, but a friend threw a desperate lasso of connection that caught me around the waist. 

I can tell you where I’m at right now: with the help of antidepressants and family and friends, I’m slowly climbing up the rope to the light.

God knows what the light holds.