TW: Contains indirect reference to suicidal ideation.
There have been many hackneyed phrases uttered at me in recent years:
‘…there is a light at the end of the tunnel…’
‘…hang in there, it will get better…’
‘…you’ll look back at this experience and be grateful at what it taught you…’
I could go on, but I won’t, lest I lose you to boredom. Because that is how I feel; I’m bored of hearing these things said to me repeatedly, I’m frustrated at waking each morning to the same dread at the day before me, I’m angry at Him for putting me through this living Hell when I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Because that is how I feel, like I’m serving penance for some sin unknown.
But most of all I’m tired. The Black Dog whose home has been my shoulders all these years is crushing me. I can feel my shoulders sag, my knees begin to buckle. I no longer have the strength to bear it’s weight. I’m doing everything asked of me: I get up every day, I wash and dress, I go for walks, write, draw, I practice my soothing-rhythm-breathing, I take my medication properly…and yet, still, no light. I see only darkness in front of me. It is bleak, cold, empty. I can’t plunge any further into this abyss. Either the Black Dog goes, or I do.