It's strange you know, I never realised how easy it is for a person to bring themselves to the edge of a nervous breakdown. It actually feels as if there are clouds hanging over you, dark storm clouds sending unknown feelings and thoughts you wish would just leave you alone and let you feel numb. They never do of course. That's the trick of The Black Dog, the trick of depression. You feel so drained and think crazy things all the time. Your body actually feels wasted, even used somehow, and you feel more and more alone than ever before - feel as if you're being made to walk, unwillingly, a thousand miles but never actually getting anyway. The nasty trick of depression.

I had forgotten any dreams and hope I once had; my days remained filled with only feelings of darkness that could sometimes betray my field of vision and always my train of thought. I often wondered if belief in my faith would ever drag me back from the edge, but the black dog was always sniffing at my door and the dark beast of insanity was always whispering in my ear.

It whispered: faith don't live here no more, friend.

Sleeping pills and a lot of alcohol seemed to be the only way I could stop the endless pain. You know you can't always live with it so there has to be something to take the edge off, and so I took to the bottle, and pretty seriously too. In fact the drink began to affect my whole life. It wasn't long before I found myself telling my boss of ten years to take his job and stick it in the place where his beloved God would never dream of showing up and saying peek-a-boo. Strange how you do and say things that are completely out of your nature when you're as far gone as I was. I admit I was drunk that day and shouldn't have been at work, but it had not been planned before hand. In fact, I felt as if I was actually watching it all unfold from the outside, you know a kind of out-of-body experience. I could see my face, a mess of rage for unknown reasons, and I can see my ex-boss standing across the other side of the shed, his mouth gaping, his eyes speaking his thoughts: Good Lord, Mark has lost it! It was both pitiful and unfortunate that I had stooped to such a manner. Still, not much I can do about that now, is there? I don't know why I'd said he could take the job and shove it, I enjoyed that job, he was a great employer, but something had just snapped that day and, well here I am. I did laugh like a mad man that night at the pub while I told the other boys about what I'd said, and they'd all laughed too. Though I mostly suspect it was just to humour me. I suppose they could see the dark path I had began to walk.

Anyway, I knew I should have got help but when I thought about it I heard that dark voice muttering my head. It was all puzzled words, but made enough sense to my mixed up mind.

"Why bother getting help Mark?" the voice would say. "Doesn't it just seem too damn hard like everything else? Or look at it this way: the bottle will keep on filling while you life keeps on dying and the roses keep on blooming like the clouds keep on moving and the sun keeps on setting as the moon keeps on rising and your tears go on stinging while you keep on draining the bottle and dreaming in a life of nothingness".

Strange, I know, but to me it actually made sense. Everything was too hard and getting help for my state of depression would've seemed just as hard. I preferred to remain hounded by the empty bottles beside my armchair in the living room because I'd lost faith in both God and myself; my life was beyond help, or so I believed.

Those empty bottles.

I tried to remind myself to clean them up, wondering what visitors might've thought if they'd showed up suddenly, sniffing at the front door like the Black Dog. But there they remained, gathering dust and looking both sinister and comforting at the same time. I just didn't have the energy to go round picking up empty items in my home - I couldn't even pick up my own empty life.

I wasn't in good health...no, perhaps I should say I'm not in good health, and I didn't need to be in control of my thoughts to see that. There was enough evidence lying around the house to tell me I was way out of control. And then I remember one night I went down to the local bottle shop, bought a bottle of jacks, and then decided to take a bath and drink it when I got home. Like a damn fool I passed out and almost drowned that night. I don't know what saved me, but whatever it was, it should've just let me go. Still that night never woke me up to my downfall. I had a problem and I could only laugh about it, shrug it off while I sat in my old armchair, a bottle of jacks in my hand. I grimaced with every mouthful, yet still drank it because it was like a drug - addictive. It took the edge off the pain.

Okay so maybe I was smiling at death, just hadn't fully woken up to the fact. I sat there one night thinking it over but knew come the following day I would be paying a visit to my new friend Jack again. I would look at the bottle in my hand, thinking about how I was going to win Eliza back once and for all, then suddenly I'd jump in fear when I saw Death's white face staring back at me from inside that bottle. It wouldn't be long before I realised I was seeing my own damn reflection. What can I say, detectives? Rainy days were coming, sorrowful ones were already there, I had no idea how close these darker ones were. I don't exactly know when it was that I came up with the plan, somewhere between the pill popping and the drinking, but I remember sitting in my armchair, giggling about how clever it was, while I tried endlessly to find my own face through my drunken eyes, pressing the bottle of my soul to my lips.