Here Doggy, Doggy

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 never doubted that that it was my choice. The options for getting that dog off were there: it was up to me to ask for help. And to take my meds. And to go to counselling. And to get involved in support groups. And, yes, to do what I could to lend a hand to anyone who was walking down the same road as I.

Now, however, it’s different. For the first time ever since I learned I had a mental illness, I suddenly have no choice at all.

 Never before – in any other First, or even in a Third world country, has any mental health practitioner said to me “I can’t help you.” Never before has my battle with the black dog been totally one-on-one.  I’ve never had to stand up to him before completely unarmed and with no supporters. And, as I said, the weight of the bugger is increasing exponentially: I’m not even sure I’m strong enough to fight this fight for too much longer.

Beside which, it just gets so bloody difficult to fight the good – or any – fight, when it suddenly percolates down into consciousness: There *is* a choice.

One way to stop having to fight this canny canine is, as a certain corporation whispers constantly in our ears, to just do it.

So just stop fighting.  In fact this also obviates the need for support too – if one welcomes the weight of this pernicious pup upon the shoulders then there’s no need to keep putting off the inevitable. The two of you can join forces and go through life together. For ever.

 It’s obviously only polite to choose this option: the whole of the NHS Mental Health sector would have to be completely overhauled in order to provide any kind of realistic options for the mentally ill. It’s a bit self-involved to advocate for this now, isn’t it?

And seriously - from a practical point of view?  Yes, we know: the NHS has to look after millions of really sick, and dangerously ill, people. They’ve got enough on their plates. We can’t really expect them to spend too much money on people who are looney tunes to start off with, can we? I mean, realistically; what’s the point? Besides, half of ‘em aren’t actually ill: - just conning the taxes out of worthy working folk.

The message is finally getting through according to many of the people I’ve interviewed in the past year or so. No doubt even I will cotton on soon. After all, I’m only mentally impaired, not hearing impaired. And I'm told it's being trumpeted out loud and clear.

And it’s true.  If I listen very mindfully I’ll hear the message our government is striving so hard to get across. Faintly above the chatter I hear it now. I think it’s saying..now wait a minute...ah yes!

That’s it: loud and clear across the whole conversation it’s building to a crescendo:

‘FUCK YOU!!’  our duly elected leaders tell us.  And it doth echo from the halls of Whitehall.

And lo! We are well and truly fucked.