The black dog that crawled back up on my shoulder 2 years ago has been a teacup Chihuahua until recently. About ten days ago I realised he’d morphed into a good-sized Labrador. I think now he’s going for Irish Wolfhound. Now that black dog is not exclusively the property of Winston Churchill, or Robin Williams or even National Treasure, Stephen Fry. Without even having it explained, every bi-polar person instinctively understands what it means the first time they hear it. Because, perhaps, that feeling of carrying an actual physical burden is so familiar? At times it feels like a sack of wheat on one’s shoulders which is pretty grim – but an old, familiar dog? Smelly and noxious nowadays maybe, but intimately known: - he ain’t heavy, he’s my black dog? Now, even before I was clinically diagnosed at the age of 12, I knew what it was like to feel weighted down – until finally one ends up supine; unable to rise up high enough to get out of bed. But I ne