Last February was my 50th birthday. Woo-hoo . . . right? No, not really. The black dog had simply gotten too big for me to pretend anymore. Broken relationships with people I love, friends dying, parents with Alzheimer’s who didn’t know me anymore . . . I felt like a soldier on a battlefield; so much death and destruction everywhere I turned.

I was tired of putting on the outward appearance that “everything is fine”. To quote Marcellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction, “Naw man. I’m pretty fuckin’ far from okay.” That line pretty much summed up my life at that point. Instead of celebrating a milestone birthday I decided to ignore it. Not everyone understood but they accepted it and the day passed like any other.

My best friend had died several months earlier and I was still trying to cope with his loss. I’d thought I had accepted it fairly well at the time, but like a lot of things in depression it came back to haunt me. Mike and I had a special mind-to-mind & heart-to-heart connection and now that was gone forever. Ignoring things, trying to bury them, pretending that everything is okay is the worst way to deal with problems. They never go away on their own. They only grow and fester.

Months earlier Mike had called me and left a message on my answering machine. Usually he’d be laughing and would say something like, “What’s up, bitch?! It’s Mike, give me a call.” This time I could tell by the flat tone of his voice that something wasn’t right. It took several phone calls before I finally made contact one afternoon while sitting in my car in the parking lot at work. When he heard my voice he was quite for a second and then I could hear a growing quiver in his voice. Mike was a big man, 6′3 or so and at times pushing 300 pounds with arms like Mike Tyson, but try as he might he couldn’t help but break down as he told me he had colon cancer. We both cried as we told each other how much our friendship meant. In the midst of all this Mike told me that he wasn’t telling everyone about his illness, that he reserved for only his closest friends. I felt honored to be one of the few people outside his family that he felt comfortable sharing such intimate knowledge with. I remember looking up, rubbing my eyes and being struck by the commonplace sight of people coming and going to their cars oblivious to our drama. That’s life, someone in a crisis and someone else going to lunch.

I flew to Chicago and stayed with him several days. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and it was a very emotional reunion. We went out to eat a lot and over dinner one night Mike asked me how I’d been doing but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I had a black dog. Part of the reason was I wanted to be there for him and not whine about my problems. Mike had a wife, 5 kids and a terminal disease, but I think the bigger reason was I felt a sense of shame for having depression. I felt like if I was a stronger person, a stronger man, I wouldn’t have these problems. I would be in charge of my life and because I wasn’t, then obviously I was a failure. You don’t think these thoughts out in a logical, linear manner - but in an instant they are there along with the accompanying emotions.

The Black Dog is a strange creature. Nobody chooses to have any disease yet somehow when it comes to depression people think it’s a choice. It’s not. Would you apologize or feel guilty if you had cancer? Would another disease make you feel less of a man or woman?

One night we drove around Chicago and talked into the morning. At one point he got choked up when talking about his future and wiping away his tears he said, “Man, I just don’t want to be forgotten.” I choked up too and said, “No one who’s met you will ever forget you.”

I told Mike how much I’d always admired him, his intellect, self confidence, athletic ability, etc. just about everything about him. Mike always seemed like he had it all together. I’d once told a counselor that if I could be like anyone it would be Mike. Mike said, “Just be you.” This was the same thing the counselor had told me. One of the cruelest things about the black dog is the way it reflects your self image. You look in the mirror and see something very different from what others see.

Instead I told Mike of my daughter and how what once was a close father/daughter relationship had fallen apart. Being a father was the most important thing in my life and I had thought I was a good dad. This estrangement didn’t cause my depression but it sure made it worse. It was devastating. Still is. No one likes to be rejected but having a child turn against you and your entire side of the family . . . it’s like your world and your heart crumble a little every day.

I’ve always loved the blues but man, I never thought I’d know what they were singing about on such a personal level.

My daughter was a lot like my parents with Alzheimer’s; they were still very much alive but as far as being able to have a relationship, it was like they were dead . . . but I couldn’t bury them. How do you move on when you cling to hope of reconciling? How do you reconcile when the other person refuses to communicate or tell you what’s wrong? There was nothing - just emptiness, sadness and a tremendous sense of loss.

Mike tried to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault, that it was my daughter and her mom that had problems. What he couldn’t understand was the emotional trauma this alienation had caused. It was like being shot and arguing about who shot you and what their motives were when what really matters is how can the wound be healed. Can it be healed?

When I left we told each other, “I love you” (a first for me to a man outside my family) and gave each other a hearty hug and said that we’d see each other again, soon. We never did. I miss you so much Mike.

So what is the point of this post? Don’t wait to open yourself up with close friends and family. If you do, it may be too late and once it’s gone - that’s it, you have to live with it forever. If they don’t understand depression it doesn’t matter; at least you were honest and shared a part of yourself and that, in many ways, is as intimate a gesture as my friend Mike telling me about his terminal cancer. Don’t hesitate to tell someone you love them - ever.

Sometimes a hurt can’t be healed. I’d always wanted to believe in unconditional love but didn’t really feel it until my daughter and son were born; then I knew it was real, it was palpable. I would love them forever even when they didn’t love me back. That kind of love is a real treasure but it can also be the source of a pain that will never go away. Even then it’s worth it.

If you’re not feeling up to pretending - especially during the upcoming holidays - then don’t. It’s not about punishing anyone or somehow drawing attention to yourself by making a fuss about not participating. It’s about being honest with and respecting yourself and family. The holidays or any ‘big’ occasion are often times very stressful, painful times especially if you’re chained to a black dog.

It’s okay to bow out, in fact it can be a big relief. No expectations to live up to, no presents to buy, dinners to make and no forcing a smile when it’s just not there. If you don’t feel comfortable bowing out then at least scale it back. Simplicity is good. You can celebrate or not, in your own special way and it just might be the start of really caring for and appreciating yourself. Just be you.

This entry was posted on Monday, October 15th, 2007 at 8:13 pm and is filed under family.