The Black Dog

Sometimes I have no idea where my depression comes from when I have an 'attack'. This morning I was happy. A beautiful winter morning, with the frost thick on the grass, ice on the cars, and the fence gently steaming in the sun. I'd lost a bit of weight, always good news. I went to the gym, had a good workout, then caught the train into the city. Saturday morning! What could be better? I arranged to meet my lady at a superb coffee shop where we often go. So far everything good.

Then it all started to go awry. I had two small gift vouchers for Myer, a huge department store. I went in to Myer and got more and more down as I wandered through the shop. There were beautiful shirts, from Polo, or Nautica, or Calvin Klein or Blazer. Beautifully cut, of beautiful fabric. And they were way outside my budget. $130. $160. $220. I went over to the house brand section. Oh, they had shirts. $40. Cheap. And you could see why. There were the clothes I could afford. Now I know why they called them the lumpen proletariat. Their clothes were lumpy and misshapen. Not elegant and tasteful and beautiful.

Yeah I know. Most people wear these cheap clothes. Most people can't afford to spend $130 or $160 on just one shirt. Welcome to the working classes, Nigel. This is the reality for most people. The great triumph of free enterprise. What depressed me was that there must be thousands for whom spending $130 on a shirt is nothing. A mere bagatelle.

Of course, it might not have been my relative poverty which made me depressed. See, I never really know. Sometimes I can think back over the day and then say, oh yes, it was that, or that, which put me in a crap mood. But other times... I don't the fuck know. It happens. The black dog takes over.

So maybe it was all the happy people going off to their footy game. What does it feel like to belong to a tribe? To have no doubts about it, no second thoughts? The train was full of footy fans going in for the game. Happy, happy people. A warm fug of 'us and them'. The alien (to me) rituals of male bonding: the team cap, the scarf, the guernsey, the high five. Could I pretend, do you think? I've always rather suspected not.

Dunno. Happy this morning, depressed tonight. And I don't know why.

But it makes me want to hide, to lock myself in a dark place, to sleep all day and hope that everything just goes away. They say there is a depressed gene. You'd think those fucktards who are trying to 'cure' gays would look for the depressed gene and do something really useful, don't you? But no.

I'm trying hard not to be depressed. Every day I list the things I'm grateful for. Sometimes, it doesn't work, and scolding myself into happiness and plenty fails. Oh well. Môre is nog 'n dag! I expect I'll feel better in the morning.

I know there are people with far worse problems. Those two guys just beginning a 14 years prison sentence in Malawi, merely for being gay. I know there are the poor sods who manufacture the shirts, working for 50 cents an hour or less. I know. So tomorrow, gentle readers, I will be happy. O frabjous day! Meanwhile, it's bed time.

Go well, and may The Goddess cup you always in Her hands.