A story told by the Black Dog — Depression Incarnate
I am the Black Dog.
Not the loyal kind.
Not the companion by your side kind.
I don’t fetch. I don’t protect.
I devour.
You don’t notice me at first.
I come quietly.
Patient.
I wait in the corners of your sadness until the air tastes like defeat.
And then I move in.
It wasn’t me who appeared first.
That was my brother, the Black Panther. Pain.
He doesn’t ask permission.
He doesn’t need to.
He was summoned by ACC.
Yes. Them.
The gatekeepers.
The deniers.
They saw the injury clear as daylight.
Read the specialist’s report:
Work-related trauma. Surgery required.
But truth costs money.
So they looked away.
And with one stroke of their poisoned pen,
They called it degenerative.
Pre-existing.
They called him expendable.
And in that moment,
They opened the door for us both.
My brother, ever eager, pounced first.
Sank his claws into L4 and L5 like a starving cat on fresh meat.
Made himself at home.
Growled with pleasure as ACC fortified his position
With delays, denials, and cold clinical letters.
Our new home howled.
Begged them: “But the specialist said...”
They ignored.
He pleaded.
They bureaucratized.
And I?
I was already there.
Coiled in his thoughts.
Slipping into the gaps Pain left behind.
Even though my brother left only scraps, the flavour — oh, the flavour — was exquisite.
Confusion.
Fatigue.
Despair marinated in every: “We’re still reviewing your claim.”
I watched him lose sleep.
Lose faith in the system.
Then — lose hope.
Watched his mind fracture.
Then his smile.
Nothing is sweeter than a smile hiding pain.
I make sure it convinces.
That’s when I feast best, in silence.
You’d think my name would warn them.
But the world romanticizes me.
“Sadness.”
“Low mood.”
They don’t understand.
I am not a feeling.
I am a force.
I am the weight no scale built by man can measure.
He had one surgery.
Then another.
Futile.
Steel cannot cut out what ACC has gifted.
My brother still parades through his body.
And I?
I rule what’s left.
Where he bites, I whisper.
Where he burns, I burrow.
He roars.
I don’t need to.
I convince.
I tell him:
“You’re a burden.”
“You’re broken.”
“Your family would be better off without you.”
“Your partner deserves someone whole.”
He listens.
More than he should.
Not just because my brother is relentless.
Not just because ACC keeps adding barriers.
But because I speak in his own voice.
I am so good,
He can’t tell my imitation from his own.
And I want him to forget he ever had a voice at all.
Just the way ACC likes it.
They watch us closely — ACC.
Our masters.
They clap.
They give awards to those who delay care the longest.
Case managers pat each other on the back for every upheld denial.
They laugh when he tries to get a taxi to the grocery store:
“Whose turn is it to deny him this time?”
“This sucker says it’s urgent — give the best employee the honour.”
The stamp of denial — their favourite tool.
Featherlight for the wielder.
Crushing for the receiver.
Every month without help
Another brick in the foundation of the castle I’ve built inside him.
He weeps into pillows.
And I lick his face.
Every fake smile — “I’m all good, mate” — a light meal for me.
He lies awake.
And I keep him company.
When he tries to escape into nothingness,
I’m always there to reel him back into despair.
Loyal, aren’t I?
But still
He didn’t break.
And that enrages me.
Because they come.
The ones I hate most.
His family.
They visit —
Even if only to talk about the weather.
They text.
Invite him for dinner.
Say: “I’m here if you need.”
“Just checking in.”
They bring light.
That unbearable, painful light.
And where there is light,
I cannot feast.
Love ruins the flavour.
Hope makes the meat tough.
Every time someone says he matters —
I lose my grip.
Every time someone says “You’re not alone,”
I stumble.
You see, I don’t need to **** him.
I just need him to stop fighting.
To stop asking for help.
To stop believing in it.
To stop believing in himself.
But he won’t.
Because of them.
They remind him he’s more than this.
More than the claim number.
More than the injury.
More than my whispers, or my brother’s claws.
And I hate them for it.
ACC created us.
But his family?
They threaten to unmake me
My brother and I,we talk sometimes.
We sit beside the embers in his chest and scheme.
“How do we crush him this time?”
“How do we outlast their love?”
“How do we extinguish the embers that refuse to die?”
I know my time is limited.
The deeper their love, the less I can feed.
Because love does what surgery cannot.
It heals.
Still, we try.
I carry his soul like a weighted vest.
My brother gnaws at his nerves.
ACC feeds us with every letter,
Every hold music loop.
We drag him.
But he still walks.
Not because he believes in ACC —
But because he believes in them.
He accepts the light they offer.
And that is our greatest enemy.
So here I stay.
Patient.
Watching.
Waiting.
I am the Black Dog.
And though I cannot beat love…
I will never stop trying
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 1:12 AM UTC
A story told by the Black Dog — Depression Incarnate
I am the Black Dog.
Not the loyal kind.
Not the companion by your side kind.
I don’t fetch. I don’t protect.
I devour.
You don’t notice me at first.
I come quietly.
Patient.
I wait in the corners of your sadness until the air tastes like defeat.
And then I move in.
It wasn’t me who appeared first.
That was my brother, the Black Panther. Pain.
He doesn’t ask permission.
He doesn’t need to.
He was summoned by ACC.
Yes. Them.
The gatekeepers.
The deniers.
They saw the injury clear as daylight.
Read the specialist’s report:
Work-related trauma. Surgery required.
But truth costs money.
So they looked away.
And with one stroke of their poisoned pen,
They called it degenerative.
Pre-existing.
They called him expendable.
And in that moment,
They opened the door for us both.
My brother, ever eager, pounced first.
Sank his claws into L4 and L5 like a starving cat on fresh meat.
Made himself at home.
Growled with pleasure as ACC fortified his position
With delays, denials, and cold clinical letters.
Our new home howled.
Begged them: “But the specialist said...”
They ignored.
He pleaded.
They bureaucratized.
And I?
I was already there.
Coiled in his thoughts.
Slipping into the gaps Pain left behind.
Even though my brother left only scraps, the flavour — oh, the flavour — was exquisite.
Confusion.
Fatigue.
Despair marinated in every: “We’re still reviewing your claim.”
I watched him lose sleep.
Lose faith in the system.
Then — lose hope.
Watched his mind fracture.
Then his smile.
Nothing is sweeter than a smile hiding pain.
I make sure it convinces.
That’s when I feast best, in silence.
You’d think my name would warn them.
But the world romanticizes me.
“Sadness.”
“Low mood.”
They don’t understand.
I am not a feeling.
I am a force.
I am the weight no scale built by man can measure.
He had one surgery.
Then another.
Futile.
Steel cannot cut out what ACC has gifted.
My brother still parades through his body.
And I?
I rule what’s left.
Where he bites, I whisper.
Where he burns, I burrow.
He roars.
I don’t need to.
I convince.
I tell him:
“You’re a burden.”
“You’re broken.”
“Your family would be better off without you.”
“Your partner deserves someone whole.”
He listens.
More than he should.
Not just because my brother is relentless.
Not just because ACC keeps adding barriers.
But because I speak in his own voice.
I am so good,
He can’t tell my imitation from his own.
And I want him to forget he ever had a voice at all.
Just the way ACC likes it.
They watch us closely — ACC.
Our masters.
They clap.
They give awards to those who delay care the longest.
Case managers pat each other on the back for every upheld denial.
They laugh when he tries to get a taxi to the grocery store:
“Whose turn is it to deny him this time?”
“This sucker says it’s urgent — give the best employee the honour.”
The stamp of denial — their favourite tool.
Featherlight for the wielder.
Crushing for the receiver.
Every month without help
Another brick in the foundation of the castle I’ve built inside him.
He weeps into pillows.
And I lick his face.
Every fake smile — “I’m all good, mate” — a light meal for me.
He lies awake.
And I keep him company.
When he tries to escape into nothingness,
I’m always there to reel him back into despair.
Loyal, aren’t I?
But still
He didn’t break.
And that enrages me.
Because they come.
The ones I hate most.
His family.
They visit —
Even if only to talk about the weather.
They text.
Invite him for dinner.
Say: “I’m here if you need.”
“Just checking in.”
They bring light.
That unbearable, painful light.
And where there is light,
I cannot feast.
Love ruins the flavour.
Hope makes the meat tough.
Every time someone says he matters —
I lose my grip.
Every time someone says “You’re not alone,”
I stumble.
You see, I don’t need to **** him.
I just need him to stop fighting.
To stop asking for help.
To stop believing in it.
To stop believing in himself.
But he won’t.
Because of them.
They remind him he’s more than this.
More than the claim number.
More than the injury.
More than my whispers, or my brother’s claws.
And I hate them for it.
ACC created us.
But his family?
They threaten to unmake me
My brother and I,we talk sometimes.
We sit beside the embers in his chest and scheme.
“How do we crush him this time?”
“How do we outlast their love?”
“How do we extinguish the embers that refuse to die?”
I know my time is limited.
The deeper their love, the less I can feed.
Because love does what surgery cannot.
It heals.
Still, we try.
I carry his soul like a weighted vest.
My brother gnaws at his nerves.
ACC feeds us with every letter,
Every hold music loop.
We drag him.
But he still walks.
Not because he believes in ACC —
But because he believes in them.
He accepts the light they offer.
And that is our greatest enemy.
So here I stay.
Patient.
Watching.
Waiting.
I am the Black Dog.
And though I cannot beat love…
I will never stop trying