A friend of mine has recently written a rather splendid account of his battles with depression. It’s entitled Walking The Black Dog, and is brave and honest and inspiring.
It’s got me thinking about my own struggles with depression and anxiety, and how our ways of processing these emotional turmoils vary so much from person to person.
I found some of my old poetry, from when I was at my bleakest and blackest. I was living my life like a walking shadow. I didn’t feel anything. There was an absence of emotion. In fact, the wonderful Hyperbole and a Half describes it perfectly in her blog post, Adventures in Depression Part Two.
I’m going to post some of the poems. It’s so interesting to see how the internal voice has changed over time, and also how fragmented and self-involved depression can make one.

Have a read, see what you think.

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