I have two black dogs. Jethro's an actual dog. Oscar is "the black dog". Jethro is awesome. Oscar's an a---hole.
LET me tell you about my two black dogs: Jethro and Oscar. Jethro's an actual dog. Oscar is "the black dog". I'll start with Jethro.
He's a cocker spaniel. He's six. His jet-black hair smells funky, he rocks a dome-shaped head, and every so often he eats poo. Like actual poo. More importantly, he's amazing. A happy, sweet, cuddle-bomb. He really is a man's best friend, my dad's, but I'd like to think I'm a close second. And he helps me beat the blues - but more on that later.
Oscar is the other black dog. He's like an imaginary best friend, except that to me he's neither imaginary or a friend. I've known him for 12 years and, put simply, he's an arsehole. He follows me around. Everywhere. He makes me cry. He makes me doubt everything about everything. And he's turned me against the one person I need most: myself.
Let's put it this way - he's no Jethro. If you pitted the two of them in a death match in the Cage of Awesome, J-ro would deliver victory with a fly-kick to Oscar's pants. I don't care that Oscar’s been de-sexed, or that he doesn't wear pants or that he’s only a metaphorical dog - that's how it's going to go down.
Life with Jethro is simple, fun and carefree. Jethro is just Jethro. But Oscar isn't like that. Oscar isn't Oscar, Oscar is OCD. Not the glamorous As-Good As-It-Gets kind where you skip over cracks in a flight of whimsy and flirt with Helen Hunt. No, Oscar is the shit, boring, in-your-head-27-hours-out-of-24 kind of OCD. I’m not saying one is better or worse than the other - but Howard Hughes wasn’t crazy and eccentric. He just had a disease no-one, least of all himself, understood: OCD.
I didn’t ask Oscar to come when I moved to Sydney last year, he just invited himself. Like I said: arsehole. Jethro’s still in Brisbane but he’s taught me many things. The most important? To get outside of my head and see life, in the moment, for what it is. And I have to say, it's not half bad.
When I look at his oddly-formed face and his impossible smile, I'm taken away from Oscar and into that moment where I can just chase my own tail. Because it's my tail and I'll chase it if I damn well please. And at times like that, I'm reminded of the simple things we can all do to make our lives a little bit better.
1. Don't go it alone. It can be hard but you need to tell someone you're suffering. The best day of my life was the day I bawled my way towards a diagnosis, drove home, and gave Jethro the longest hug of all time. Tell your Mum, tell your best friend, tell your GP. And please, if you're in crisis and feeling overwhelmed, speak to Lifeline.
2. Know your enemy. If the first step is getting help then the second is helping yourself. The only way I'm going to keep Oscar in the doghouse is by learning from the best. It's a continual process, so skill up. Google is your friend. So is your Kindle. Whatever it takes, get reading. Ask questions. Get involved.
3. Smile - inside and out. This isn't about putting on a mask. Sometimes you're just going to have a bad day. That's fine. Laughter might be the best medicine, it might not. But if I can catch up with friends for a cheap Saturday lunch or sit down to Q&A Family Guy after work, I'm going to be in good spirits. As for smiling inside? Meditate. It's not just for Buddhists and hipsters. It clears your mind, improves concentration and boosts energy. It's legit. Google 'Inner Smile Meditation' and it should explain why the tall ranga on the Bondi Junction service is sitting bolt upright with his eyes closed, wearing a smug grin.
4. Log off. I live my life online and it not only keeps me connected - it pays my bills. But if you're too wired in you will burn out. Try this: I have a "no devices" rule during meal times and episodes of Breaking Bad, much to the chagrin of my multi-tasking girlfriend. If you can't switch off you'll miss out on what's happening around you. Take 30 minutes a day to get outside - of your house and your head. That Nyan Cat's not going anywhere.
5. Sweat it out. If I have to peel myself off the gym floor and carry my pasty, pre-pubescent excuse for a torso home and collapse in a sweaty, broken heap, I call that a good start to the day. Exercise is a profound anti-depressant. It gives you energy, purpose, and even a little swagger. Maybe too much, to the point where you're busted checking yourself out in the elevator after lunch. Awkward.
Time for that stroll. I think I can trust Oscar to behave himself.
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