It’s ironically funny to start a page and not know what I want to write, only that I want to undertake the act of writing.
You see, over the last few months things have got dark again. The big black cloud that sweeps over me and clouds my thoughts, pushing away the nice things, until only it is left, has been pushing its way in. It is hovering now, just on the edge of sight, waiting again to consume me like it did yesterday. I renders me unable to function, to do nothing but to cry and weep, and without any means of explanation. It sits there, like a threat, until I face it. Then it either consumes me, or I win and push it back a little further. There is not point in ignoring it, or running away.
When it is there, the smallest nudge can push me over the edge. It can be the tiniest triggers, something that I would usually take in my stride, something that wouldn’t phase me at any other time, can become all encompassing as if my very existence depends on it. My rational brain knows this is false, but that doesn’t stop it. Reason has gone out the window.
Then the darkness comes….
The real darkness of the lost soul, delving deeper and deeper into a despair so dark and so far removed from normality (whatever that is) that there seems to be another realm in which other live that I can see by cannot enter. I am alone, even in the company of best of friends, even in the company of a lover. I am completely alone, in my darkness. After a while it becomes easier to embrace it than to look for the light, it is easier to hug the dark and to wallow in it. It becomes, warm and friendly, somehow familiar and depressingly comforting.
Then the darker thoughts will come. How can I stay here in the warm darkness, not having to deal with the world and other people. I don’t mind being alone any-more. In fact I am now enjoying it, I push people away, I don’t want them to see me. I want to be left alone, with my friend the darkness, I want to be here in it’s warmth forever.
I wonder what it would be like to bleed to death, what is the best way to cut my wrists and arms so that I bleed out quickly enough to be able to ignore the pain that must accompany it. How can I end my life and remain here in the darkness without it causing physical pain on the way?
I do not think of others, the darkness is comforting and completely selfish. It holds me and I no longer have to face the world and other people. I no longer have to worry about work, love, life, money, where I live, what’s for dinner, can I afford new socks, can I take my bike out at the weekend, will it rain forever, why don’t have any friends? Why don’t I matter to anyone. It doesn’t matter that I don’t matter, not know, not to the darkness.
I shrink up into myself and become unresponsive. My friends try to talk to me, the ones that are left and that do care. They want to drag me from the warmth of the dark, and force me back into the light, force me to think about life, to accept that I have to carry on. But why? Why do I have to carry on? None of this matters, none of us matter. We could all be gone tomorrow and nobody would care, other planets would only notice it had gone quiet and probably rejoice in the matter.
I don’t want to talk. I can’t talk. I don’t know what to say. I can’t explain this. I can’t tell you about the darkness because it is mine. It mine alone. Everyone has their own version of it. Some call it their black dog, which isn’t fair on dogs if you ask me, because dogs are marvellous creatures who have pulled me from darkness when nothing else could have. Some say it sits on their shoulder, some say it hovers above them, or around the next corner, or at the bottom of the long slope they constantly find themselves on like a bad roller-coaster. Even when we talk to other people who have an inkling of what we mean, their darkness is not the same. I cannot be, it is as individual as we are.
When I cannot talk, I can write. I’ve always been able to do that. When I was kid and things were horrible, I would bury myself in a book, not one I was reading but one I was writing. I would draw and write on paper or in my head. It has always been here, the darkness. That is why I can say it is a friend. It has never let me down or failed to show up, although it’s timing is pretty terrible. It is familiar and that is why it is comforting, in it’s strange and lonely way.
It is hovering there right now, I can see it. It wouldn’t take much of s hove ad I would be in there again. One wrong tweet, or nasty comment, one criticism from the boss (wrongly or rightly), even an element of praise can seem false and feel like an insult. Everything is coloured with a cloud, a thickening veil that pulls be towards the dark. If I enter I will plunge down into it and swim in it’s depths. I will fight at first for every breath and then I will come to accept it and let it consume it. It is easier not to fight it in the end, you cannot win against it.
It will come for me, I’ll be waiting.
And one day I know I will never wish to walk back in to the light again.