When I started this blog, my committed intention – which I regrettably announced publicly in my first post – was to write a post once a day.
WHO WAS I F*CKING KIDDING?
I didn’t want this blog to become like all my other blogs which were mainly stream-of-consciousness brain dumps. The intended aim for this blog was to publish quality content and save the transcription of my internal verbal diarrhoea dialogue for the other blogs.
But, as the title of this post suggests, good intentions do not equal desired outcomes.
The black dog came to stay a few weeks’ ago and he dug in hard and fast. He’s a bugger that black dog.
The black dog has been around for decades. He’s quite adept at transforming himself, like a virus. He manifests in one form and you fight him off, only to have him appear weeks or months later in another form for which you have no defences. And so the black dog dance begins again.
The black dog and I are both adept in the art of transformation. Just as he metamorphoses into another previously unrecognisable form, so do I. In the company of others, I put on the mask and pretend to be normal. Yes, it’s exhausting playing Fake Me. But I’m quite good at it. You’d never know the inner battle just by looking at me; I’ve been hiding it remarkably well since 1975.
There’s no cure really. You just have to plod along and do the best you can. I have a bag full of coping mechanisms – some good, some not so good. Let’s start with the not so good: fudge is an effective short term cure. As is chile con carne with totopos and lashings of sour cream. Chocolate does a good job too. And remaining in bed. This year I added red wine to the list. And I have discovered just how effective that is and how easily it would be to become an alcoholic. As for the good, well there are a few: running and long walks on the beach; yoga nidra and chakra meditation; gardening; and Norway.
Last year I employed more of the good cures than the bad. Norway was by far the most effective, but unfortunately, I can’t afford to run off there to escape the pesky canine each and every time he comes to visit.
There’s something about Norway. It has a miraculous anti-inflammatory effect on me. Physically and mentally. I experience no asthma nor allergies there. And the black dog never makes it past customs and immigration. The pace of life is slower, there is a higher level of respect for personal space, and it’s far away from the emotional rollercoaster ride of family expectations and interactions.
So today’s prescription to rid me of the black dog, once and for all on this occasion, is to head down to the beach and have a stroll in the shallows. Detox from the feet up. Breathe in the salt air. And come home relaxed and clear headed, minus the black dog.
Cate Uí Néill 