The Black Mist, the Black Dog, Depression, the forgotten medical condition.

The Black Mist. Depression, the forgotten medical condition. 

This isn’t new; I wrote it in April 2010, but it remains topical. 

About fifteen years ago I wrote a guest blog post for a friend of mine, a sensitive person with a great depth of understanding about the stresses and strains of life who worked in the field of Mental Health and edited a widely read blog on that subject. She asked me for my take on the subject. I wrote about my experiences with depression and the subject has come back into my life recently. I’ve included a short section from my earlier post in here as it said exactly what I wanted to say at this time. Names and some locations have been changed. 

I used to have a very stressful job. A very specific job for which very few are suited and even fewer stay the course. Myself and my colleagues worked in different areas of the country at times to avoid becoming ‘known’ and I met my fellow workers perhaps only once a year. There were only eight of us at the ‘sharp end’ and about fifty behind the scenes. Of the eight who did the job at the same time as myself, over a period of twenty years, only three are still alive. Including me, well, obviously!

The intermittent threat of danger, the retribution meted out if any aspect of the extensive advance planning  failed and the difficulty of adapting to life after the  job ended all contributed to that high level of attrition.

I wrote in my own blog about meeting a former colleague in Stoke Mandeville Hospital, the spinal injuries unit. He’d been beaten so severely he’d been presumed dead and thrown from a speeding car by his assailants. Despite being paralysed from the neck down his positive attitude was massively uplifting.

‘I’d kill myself, if I could’, he said to me, but then laughed out loud. ‘Nah, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t stand the idea of my wife finding me and thinking, you selfish bastard, what’d you do that for?’

Selfish. The word he chose resonates with me even now. My friend died three years after I last saw him. His wife gave me his watch, ‘to remember him by.’ I can’t imagine ever forgetting the bravest man I ever knew.

Last year I went to a funeral. Not a former work colleague, but one of the toughest men I ever met. Joe was the very personification of the Alpha Male. I played in the same rugby team for many years and never saw him take a backward step. Even when he was carrying an injury the desire to play was still there and I kept on picking him; knowing his spirit and desire to win were irreplaceable. Joe was a man of immense drive and determination who was successful at everything he attempted. Last October, he killed himself.

I stayed behind, after the funeral and talked to his wife; reaching out and trying to find words suitable for occasions like this.

There aren’t any.

‘He’d been so good,’ she said, ‘then the black mist came down again.’

The black mist. The Black Dog. Depression. We don’t understand it; can’t rationalise it, yet it can disrupt a person’s life to such an extent they can’t bear it any more.

Two of my former work colleagues took their own lives. Apparently, without anyone close to them having the faintest idea of how bad the situation had become. I knew them both and was shocked to the core when I heard the news. Yes, the job played a part. I’m sure of it. Twenty years on, some memories will never leave me. Leaving aside the restrictions of the Official Secrets Act, I still find it difficult to talk, except in very general terms, about my work experience. It’s hard. The recollections are buried deep. That’s my safety valve. I’m a positive person. I don’t ‘do’ depression, as such, but I understand it. As for suicide; I can’t imagine the level of despair that brings about this decision.

Is it ‘selfish’ as my friend confined in Stoke Mandeville said? In a way, yes. Of course it is. The people left behind. Those closest to you who love you and care for you. Their despair, that feeling they could have done more, could have prevented this. I know that feeling that as I’ve felt like that on three separate occasions in my personal life. The problem is: the decision to end one’s life is made under conditions where all rational thought has fled. The ‘black mist’ is in control.

I’ll never forget my friend’s cheeriness as I fed him a meal. His nature wouldn’t permit regrets or sorrow at his condition. He shamed me. I’ve never felt so inadequate as I did that afternoon. He was bearing up under conditions that would surely have battered me. We laughed, a lot. He told me everything about his investigation of the group of men who’d almost killed him. He also told me about a prominent and flamboyant disk jockey who worked part-time at the hospital and had also died recently. My friend said, ‘never met such an arse-hole in my life.’ Ah well, there you go. Jim didn’t fix it for everyone!

I’ve been on the road for a while and the ‘plan’ as far as it existed was to travel through the Sahara desert ‘because it’s there’ as people who climb high mountains say. Circumstances have conspired against us this trip and the Saharan adventure may have to wait for another time. I stood on the empty beach at Tarifa, looking across the narrow strip of water that separates Europe and Africa and pined for deserts and mountains.

A week ago, I received an email from a friend I’d planned to visit on the next leg of the journey. I worked with him for ten years and for much of this time he was my only link to normality. When I was working,  on rare occasions it became necessary to disappear, lose my identity, become another person. Usually, this other person was not exactly a pillar of the community but a ‘type’ chosen in order to gain the confidence of the undesirable people involved in our current ‘case.’ 

Tony – not his real name – was my control; the one person I reported back to. Not my boss – the idea would amuse both of us equally – as I was very much out there on my own, making my own decisions, but he was always there for me if I needed him. He never worked at the ‘sharp end’ as he used to call it, but he did his job with immense dedication and never let me down.

Tony had heard about our changed plans and sent me a cheery email, full of platitudes about catching up next time and the like. I told my wife it didn’t sound right and the next day I had another email from Tony’s wife. She told me he’d be furious if he knew she’d been in touch, but wanted me to know about Tony’s ‘problem.’ The Black Dog again.

We talked about it, but it was an easy decision to make. There were good reasons for staying in Spain, in regular contact with the UK, but this took priority now. We told our ailing relatives to cope without us for a week and hopped onto the next ferry to Morocco.

When Tony retired, four years ago now, he’d bought a little place in France and tried to lose himself in house renovations. A good plan. I’d done much the same thing myself. He and his wife visited us in Southern Spain a couple of years ago and afterwards drove across Morocco after hearing us raving about the place for a whole week. They loved it, as I knew they would. They spoke French, could stand the summer heat and their next step was obvious: selling up again and buying a house in Morocco.

A brave step, but if anyone could make a go of it, it was Tony. As I thought. Physically, he remained as strong as an ox and his resilience had sustained me and all the others for whom Tony had been ‘Mister Dependable.’ Eventually though, he reached the stage where ‘keeping busy’ wasn’t enough to keep the demons at bay. I’ve seen my job break people in the past and Tony, in retirement, just couldn’t adjust to the change in pace. You spend your working life in the knowledge that one tiny mistake can have very serious consequences and it’s almost impossible to put that behind you and live an ‘ordinary’ life. I know all about this. I’ve had periods where I’ve felt powerless. Moody. Temporarily unable to shake self-induced pressures. I’ve dealt with them. Faced them down and moved on, but I’m very well aware it’s not just a case of ‘pulling yourself together.’ The mind is fragile and easily disturbed.

Tony’s demons are back and we’ve spent the past five days in their company. Superficially, he’s the same. Cheerful, amusing and great company, but when the conversation flagged I saw the deep furrows in his brow that were never there before. He drinks far more than he used to do and has periods of brooding silence.

After three days of pretence, it all came flooding out. Too many memories, too many concerns about the safety of others. I’d seen at first hand how much he’d worried over me when I was ‘behind the lines’ as he always called it. That depth of concern made him the perfect contact, but took its toll. We sat up late one night, just the two of us, listening to the myriad sounds of a Moroccan night. The village Tony lives in isn’t on any map and I still have no idea why he chose to live here. They’re a clever, garrulous couple, yet chose to hide themselves away in the middle of nowhere. Don’t misunderstand me: the house is delightful and the neighbours are friendly, but this had every sign of being a place of escape.

Tony confirmed it that night. “We wanted somewhere where nobody knew us. Try for a fresh start. Put the memories behind us.’ He said us, but the demons were in his head, not his wife’s. He knows that too.

We talked all night. About the old days. About mutual friends. About sad events as well as good times. It all came out. By dawn, we were both tired and emotional, but I felt we’d accomplished something. Certainly, I knew him better. Previously, I’d only imagined we knew each other very well. He told me of his sleep problems, the dark thoughts that recur without warning, the mood swings and many other classic symptoms of depression. ‘I know what it is,’ he said, and I’ll deal with it. I’m not going down the chemical route. This is my problem and I’ll beat it.’

We talked about the future. The trip through the desert that’s been in my head for a while. The prospect of Tony moving house to somewhere less isolated. Perhaps a house in Fez or Marrakech. A renovation project to occupy both mind and body. I volunteered to help with the renovations. He’s ‘thinking it over.’

Tony’s wife spoke to us when we left. ‘You’ll never know how much you being here meant to him,’ she said. ‘He’s more positive than at any time since he left that bloody job. Told me we’re going with you when you come back again to do that Sahara trip.’

‘That’s good,’ I said.

‘Better than you know. He told me we were going. Not asked me what I thought about the idea. He bloody well told me. First time he’s done that in five years.’ She hugged us both, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’ve waited so long to see that spark come back.’

A spark. Sparks can become so much more. I hope so. Depression is a bastard. It can take control of the strongest will and the effects on those closest to the person concerned are equally devastating. I can’t say for sure Tony will get through this. He’s a proud man and won’t seek outside help. I can relate to that. I may not agree with it, but I understand it. He needs to work it out for himself and I’ll respect that desire.

We’re still planning to do the Sahara trip. I’ve put Tony in charge of planning. He’s better at it than I am. I hope he’ll be with us when the time comes. I think he will. He’s a fighter. If anyone can beat this thing, he can. We’ll just have to wait now. That’s not easy.

Edit. May 2025

A few weeks after I wrote that blog post I was contacted by a woman, a prominent Academic, who was heading a ‘review team’ into the efficacy, or otherwise, of the diagnosis and treatment of mental health in England. She wanted permission to use my blog offering as a ‘conversation piece’ for a body that was in the ‘currently in the gestation process.’ *

*Direct quotes, many people in academia talk exactly like that. Including some of my friends. 

I was assured that names would be changed and no reference made to any specific aspects of my former employment. As I had already done this, it wasn’t a problem. I heard no more for several months until the announcement of the establishment of a new body designed to streamline government policy in the field of public health. NHS England was created  in 2012 as a Quango, namely a ‘quasi autonomous non-governmental organisation’ reporting to central Government. ‘Just a Talking Shop then,’ I thought at the time and so it was to prove. 

There are currently over 300 quangos in the UK and the largest of them all, NHS England, has recently been axed. None of of the 27 ‘sub-quangos’ within the umbrella of NHS England focus specifically on adult mental health issues, despite this being one of the biggest problems affecting society today. I do occasionally wonder what happened to my 2012 blog post. 

Footnote. My friend who I have called Tony never made it to the Sahara. He died in his sleep, apparently of natural causes, a few months after what turned out to be our last meeting. He’d been drinking heavily and was, once again, ‘depressed.’