New Poetry

 At the beginning of 2020, even before the pandemic, I noticed a change in my mental health. My state slowly declined further and resulted in six months of absolute hell for myself and my family as I battled with the invisible illness of anxiety and depression. 
I was no stranger to depression, or so I believed, having been told I'd had it on and off since my teenage years, but the anxiety was I found a new, more terrifying enemy.
After numerous panic attacks (which I had never suffered with until now), almost being sectioned (twice), I was beginning to feel slightly better by September.
Now over twelve months on, I still struggle daily, but I have come to accept it as part of who I am and try to co-exist with my demons as best I can. 
Winston Churchill described his battle with depression as an angry, aggressive black dog, tough to control but manageable when handled correctly. 
'Black Dog' is a new poem I worked on this last week (while isolating as my daughter had covid). Although dark, as befits its gothic stylisation, I hope it gives insight to those who have not experienced the 'Black Dog' just how it feels when it stares you in the face. For those who have felt like this, I hope it shows you that you are not alone with your thoughts; there are many of us out there – but you can win and be free! 

Black dog
​

Inner unrest right now is rising, reprising
these feelings of terror,
emotional scars, I'm the bearer.
Hear the call.
 'Tis the Black Dog that is howling,
always stalking, hunting, prowling.
Then the bite.

And as the pain increases, never ceases, never yields,
As the black dog paces through the soulless, barren fields,
of my mind.
Thoughts now harder to ignore, the dog is clawing at the door,
mustn't weaken, mustn't cry, on I'll push, and on I'll try.
Will I fail?
 
No rest, no respite, no place to call home,
so many around me, and yet, so alone,
and so afraid.
My mind is in turmoil, my body aching with dread; how much longer, this misery? How long 'til I'm dead?
No more pain.
 
My fear fills my days with constant struggle and strife,
and at night, I grow fearful. Will the dog take my life?
Free me, please.
Family and friends ne'er realise it's myself I despise,
can their loving eyes see through my lies, as my soul slowly dies,
I'm still falling.
 
I lift my head high and, with a dismaying sigh,
I look to the sky, as the heavens Angels now cry.
It is snowing.
The flakes cover my face with soft, white lace. Will this cold be replaced for death's icy embrace?
Not for me.
 
​The Black Dog pursues, but my soul shall refuse,
ne'er succumb to its ruse, for it is to live that I choose.
I shall fight.
Though the dog is unkind, I will not be defined
and no longer confined within my troubled mind.
I'll be free.