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How I'm Taming the Black Dog of My Bipolar Depression
My depression is an old black dog with a gray muzzle, red-rimmed eyes and wet fur. He shows up at my doorstep a few times a year, comes inside, and lies down at my feet — or on them. He follows me everywhere. Though he is usually quiet, he demands food and water. He eats my motivation, creativity and empathy. If he’s really hungry, his favorite meal is the juicy steak of my self-worth. He drinks my tears so I cannot cry, cannot let go and let in grace.
