Depression · Obsessive Compulsive Disorder · Suicide

The Black Dog – by Melanie Bee Cee


I was fiddlin’ around trying to accomplish in an hour and a half, a thing that usually takes my whole morning.

I didn’t have the luxury this morning to spend it blogging; nor will I have that same luxury tomorrow either.

Life is what happens when we are trying to get shit done.

Last night I got a phone call that a relative had died. The last surviving uncle on my father’s side. We weren’t close. I saw him in 2007 and haven’t heard a peep out of him nor his family since. He was old and I should have expected the news.

He’d have been 90 if he’d lived to 2018; and I guess he’d had enough and got lucky and got to go home. My own ‘prime’ year to die is in approximately 18 years (I’ll be 74 if my math is correct and that’s a risky proposition even if I’m not dead tired out, which I am right now). I don’t want to go on any longer than that.

For me this business of living longer and longer is a horror. Because of the decay of my physical self at an accelerated rate (my bones think they are in their early 70s NOW and I’m only 56…they’ll apparently think they’re in their early 90s by the time I hope I’m entitled to toddle off this mortal coil). I’m in pain much of the damn time and I’m finding it to be increasingly expensive (or I’m getting more miserly as I age) to live an acceptable quality of life. I have accomplished much of what I ever wanted to (besides publishing that book and I’d have to write the thing first right?) and there’s nobody much left to mourn me dropping dead anyway.

But this isn’t exactly about my whininess today. My uncle was very much beloved of his children and there is a lot of mourning going on today as he is gone now. Buried. Their mother, a sickly individual, has become THEIR burden. And I have no business calling it a ‘burden’ either. It’s none of my business.

So I donned my black ‘funeral’ clothes (yeah I have some clothes that I only wear at funerals..and they’ve gotten quite a workout over the past twenty years too) … you’ll have some too I suspect or you DO already. Suitable clothing for solemn occasions. I went to the service and heard lots of good stories of love and devotion about a father. I personally didn’t know the man very well (maybe had ten or twelve encounters in my entire life as he and my father did not stay close at the end of my father’s life and he didn’t bother to attend my father’s funeral either, nor his children — so um, yeah. Well stuff like that colors things a bit is all I’m going to say. I know his family saw him the way they painted him. Me? I saw a man with faults and troubles just like everybody else. He put on his pants one leg at a time too I bet.

But he was the last in the male line for that particular generation and for that family. It was poignant at least. Not sad to me personally, but sobering indeed.

And I came home and got here much later than I intended (I was doing some fence mending of my own while in the big city) and one thing and another and it’s 6 pm already. And I was frantically trying to get the blogging tasks I feel are necessary to keep my OCD quiet (and which I do indeed realize are not that important in the large scheme of things but they are TO ME) … and one of them was to go to someone’s blog and ask some questions in the comment section.

So I picked someone that I’ve known a while to ask my questions of and I was reading her latest posts and on one of them was this:

I told the truth in my sister’s obituary so that others might choose to live

I’m struck absolutely dumb. It made me weep. Because I see the black dog more and more frequently and while I know I’ll never feed it again, just seeing it can snap my mood from semi UP (if tired) to totally depressed.

I know what that dead woman heard and I see often enough what she saw. And again I’m struck (and this is the part that makes me so saddened) by the constant question of why I was ‘spared’ when I tried to die by my own hand when all that was given to me in exchange for surviving was a life I don’t much want. Even as much improved as it is now. How ungrateful that sounds.

But most of the folks I loved are dead. All my relatives are dying and they weren’t who I knew them as a millennia ago anyway. Being in the big city that I called home for all those years depressed me terribly. It’s changed so drastically that I’m almost (ALMOST) lost when I go there and nothing of my childhood memories remains much. I know this happens to everyone as they get older. Unless they are wiser than I was and move somewhere completely new as adults so they don’t have to witness the decay and destruction of their childhood ideals.

You can’t go back home, can you?

I really need to go rest and recharge and try to get out of this black mood and chase that black dog back to the depths of my mind where he lives. He doesn’t do so well in the light I’ve found and I’m hoping that in the morning things are so shiny new again that he can’t come out. For a season or two.

Copyright belongs to Matthew Johnstone and this book is available through

© Melanie Bee Cee 2016

Note: This post has been re-posted from Melanie’s blog. You can find the original post here.

Read Melanie’s previous contributions:

Blog: sparksfromacombustiblemind


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s