The 'black dog' doesn't mean I'm barking . . .

A DAD'S LIFE: Sometimes the despair seems a choking weight, writes ADAM BROPHY

A DAD'S LIFE:Sometimes the despair seems a choking weight, writes ADAM BROPHY

THE ED SAYS can you do something on mental health? I’m like, yeah, I suppose so. The kids are a bit mental. They make me a bit mental, pretty much all the time. But that’s not “health” as such, that’s their job. Is my or their mental health affected by what goes on between us? I don’t think so.

Have to ask myself a question? Do I get depressed? Yeah, I do, but not because of the brats or any particular thing. Like about 10 per cent of the population at any given time, I hit the skids. It isn’t pleasant, it can be all-consuming and have consequences for those near to me, but it’s part of my cycle. Energy and motivation go, everything seems bleak, I want no contact with people. Sometimes the despair seems a choking weight on my neck.

It passes. And even at the most difficult points I keep that fact as close to the forefront of my mind as possible, and while that sounds easy, it is not. My mind is full of the thought that it will never pass. It does, eventually. One certainty is that the way we feel right now will not continue forever, and accepting that makes a difference.

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The kids, of course, don’t cause this, but they have to live with my sporadic dips. We’re open about it. I explain that every now and then I go through periods when I don’t feel happy, that it’s nothing to do with them or anything that they’ve done, and it’s okay to feel like this. I explain that it passes.

We don’t label it. I don’t regard myself as suffering from an illness, but I am well aware of my propensity to engage with the dark side of my personality. I am well aware of the power that this darkness has to overwhelm everything else.

It has been called the “black dog”. It ups and gnaws at you, nips your heels, cuts you down to size, destroys your positivity and ambition and lays traps laced with drink and drugs. It snarls you into a corner where you stay, suspicious and intolerant, until you feel strong enough to inch your way out.

Fortunately, my experience is mild. I find myself in that corner only occasionally and have never been physically debilitated by my lows. My triggers include, among others, the change in season (heading into the winter is a worry) and overindulgence. The booze gets me. Hangovers last a couple of days and can tip into a prolonged bout of self-annihilation. Sometimes no trigger is required and I find myself questioning the value of everything on a sunny June day.

I deal with it as best I can. I haven’t had to take medication, but I do see a therapist and it helps. Talking helps. Being listened to helps. Just sitting with someone and them allowing you to shut up and sit, it helps.

But I view my mental health much like my physical health; you need to work on it when you’re feeling good. Because when you’re down, you’re fire-fighting; when you’re up, it’s time to get strong. It’s then that you can consciously look after yourself, take care of what you eat, make sure you’re getting enough exercise, continue with therapy and use it to examine problems and recurring issues in detail. Maybe assess meds and adjust if required.

Mental and physical health, often treated independently, go hand in hand, for me anyway. The former has to be looked after to have any chance with the latter.

I say all this freely and easily because mental health issues are normal and common. Ignoring them, or stigmatising those who struggle with them, serves only to push those who may be on the brink of seeking help back into the corner, facing down the black dog.

Life, relationships, family life, they’re all stressful enough without having to find reasons to justify why we feel crap some of the time. I can feel brutal for no apparent reason. Just as I can have a headache. For no apparent bloody reason.

So no, the kids don’t really affect my mental health apart from the usual day-to-day hair-pulling, emotional disintegration variety. They do their thing, I do mine. I tell them what to do, they ignore me. They tell me what to do, I refuse, but inevitably wind up doing it anyway against all my better judgment. It’s all straightforward and typically familial.

And so, I have no idea what I’m going to write this column about.