The Black (and blue) Dog
This old black dog is hounding me
It waits 'round the corner and hides in the trees
I feel the chill of something blown in on a breeze
There's a wonderful song by Sydney artist Andy Bull called Dog. You might have heard it and enjoyed its sprightly piano, up-tempo pacing or Lisa Mitchell's cameo. I enjoy those parts too.
In the light of a cinema screen I hide
Laughing I only feel empty inside
Crying means nothing, I've nothing to say
I wish I could kick this old black dog away
The track, though, is an all timer of mine. Within Bull's always clever lyrics lies one of the simplest, plain spoken and effective explanations of living with mental illness that I've come across. Alongside Winston Churchill and his Black Dog, it's a work that I have referred to many times when trying to safely articulate what the fuck is going on in my head.
I don't know if anyone reading this has picked up on this, but I have a few mental health challenges and light touch of neuro-funkiness. They've been with me for a long time, so long that they've integrated into the rest of my personality, and I'm not sure who I'd be without them.
And the worst part is knowing my part in it all
Yeah the worst part is knowing its nothing at all
Issues like depression, anxiety and spectrum placements are, obviously, deeply personal obstacles. Everyone's black dog is of a different breed, some pure, some are straight out mutts. I don't know what mine is, but it's definitely a mixed breed. Maybe a Labrador crossed with a Pug. Looks weird, sounds different, sees the world from an interesting angle.
And the worst part is trying to explain it to you
Yeah worst part is knowing there's nothing to, do
When you have a bespoke brain botheration, it can be hard to fully explain it to others. Especially those you are closest to. How can I possibly tell my family and friends that I am uncomfortable in nearly every situation, and find it very difficult to function enough to get through most days?
Most importantly, how do I tell them that it isn't their fault? And just because my mind is always unhappy, doesn't mean the rest of me isn't mostly ok. Most people in my life make me the maximum amount of happy and comfortable that I can possibly be, and I take tablets to try and find the bits that are lost.
I just work slightly differently. We all do.
I try to outsmart him but somehow he knows
Wherever I am, that fucking dog goes
I'll kill him the next time I swear I won't fail
I'll kick in his ribs and I'll rip off his tail
Of course, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm telling myself I'm ok, and this is just how I am, when I could be so much more. If only I tried harder. Or tried something different. Everyone else can do it, so why can't I?
The individuality of a person's experience with their own mind presents a unique quandary for those in the public eye. 'Mental health issues' has become a catch-all response for a litany of crimes committed by those we hold to different standards. And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
And the worst part is thinking it's something it's not
Yeah the worst part is thinking it might never stop
This weekend, footy did what footy so often does. It held up a mirror.
We've all seen what happened in the Pies v Blues game, and it's just so dismissive to use throw away excuses like mental health, or not getting enough sleep. Really, none of us should be saying anything with any authority until we know what happened.
I will say this though. Elijah Hollands looked exactly like I do when I'm having a major panic attack.
It's a bizarre, incredibly physical experience. My body takes command of my brain, and my nervous system throws a party, like an overly-agitated Mardi Gras.
There's an itch that crawls along my skin, differently than the usual tingling. It's like whack-a-mole, the moment one spot is satiated, another pops up. Then another. That's my early warning sign, and usually, it comes out of nowhere, and for no discernible reason. Like a VB ad. I can get it running. I can get it sitting. I can even get it doing the dishes (which is actually the most common. Maybe I should stop doing them?).
My heart goes next. But it doesn't just race. It's tumultuous, toing and froing like a backyard sprinkler. It's turbulent. There might be four or five seconds of normality, followed by a sudden drop, then a second of terrifying nothingness. Then, out of nowhere, Gout Gout gets a hold of it and off he dashes. It's a roller-coaster, my own version of interval training, with none of the benefits.
Eventually, the battle being waged on my insides works its way into the outside world. My muscles contract and relax, jerking my limbs against my will. I clench, then unclench. My head tics, my ear and shoulder desperately trying to make contact. My legs shake uncontrollably. If you put me behind Slipknot's drum kit, I'd probably nail those double kicks.
I must look utterly ridiculous. Or utterly affected.
The first time I experienced this, I went to hospital, convinced I was about to die. Panic turned to embarrassment as the symptoms wore off, and the doctors explained what was happening to me. My mind and my heart eased, but my legs continued to wiggle, and my shoulders continued to shake, until I managed to fall asleep, eight or so hours later.
My body attacks me regularly. Weekly. Sometimes daily. Usually without warning, and without a trigger. An episode can last five minutes or five hours. It's exhausting.
If I can pull myself together I'll try
But I can't explain the tear that sits in my eye
The point of all that is not to farm sympathy. I don't need it. The point is, I saw myself out there last night. He might need it.
We don't know the truth yet. We may not ever know, but with the bloodthirsty nature of the AFL's Fourth Estate, coupled with the ferocity of social media, chances are we find out one way or another.
Maybe he fucked up. Maybe there's a reason for it. But don't tell me it's a mental health episode, unless it is. And if it is, then why the fuck did he play so long? Or at all?
I can see it from both sides. I can see myself wanting to play. Just get out there and shake it off. Do my job. Do the thing I'm best at.
But if Hollands was suffering an attack or an episode and was out there against his will, then there are a multitude of people who need to remove themselves from that club, and football, permanently.
Of course, I don't know anything, except for what I know about myself. And I could be way off base. But I cannot fathom having one of my attacks in the middle of a cauldron, witnessed and recorded by 90,000 cameras, and a million more eyeballs around the country. That is truly awful.
And the worst part is trying to explain it to you
Yeah worst part is knowing there's nothing to, do
There's a decent chance that Elijah, like myself, like Andy Bull, finds it hard to explain it as well. And now he has an entire footballing industry trying to explain it for him. That's a new level of difficult. It's a 24 hour a day feeding frenzy, from talkback to TikTok, from Fox to Facebook. Imagine suffering something that you yourself can't properly articulate, and knowing that 3 million people are offering their opinions.
And the worst part is knowing my part in it all
Yeah the worst part is knowing its nothing at all
His battle is unique. And it is his to fight in his own way. I hope he is ok.
Lifeline:
call 13 11 14
*All lyrics (in bold) written by Andy Bull, not me.
