Small essays born out of loneliness.

Stuck in a dark room

I always thought of myself as being trapped inside a dark room. Where there are no windows and the darkness encompasses every object within it. Where I know there is a light bulb, but it is turned off, the switch lost between the mess and my clumsiness. Where I hope there is a door, though I do not know how to reach it. Each day, I'm stumbling through all the furniture and possessions inside, bruising my legs, my arms, cutting my hands when I pick up something I shouldn't have. If only I could turn the lights on, I could get out.

Each day passing just like the last one. I don't know any better but I'm still not used to the darkness. Each day I remember how I never quite felt like everybody else, but if only I could find the light switch, I would be the same as them. Treating it as just a problem of not knowing how to navigate this room. At some point, I would learn how to walk in the darkness, like everybody else, and I would turn the lights on, and I would be on my way to the outside.

There are some delusions we tell ourselves to reject the pain we feel. The delusions feel good for a long time, but then they cause their own pain too. Sometimes, the pain is so great, that you would rather finally accept the truth you kept hiding for so long.

When I decided that I had enough of harming myself from playing in the dark, I thought I could finally accept that I was scared of seeing everything clearly. For when I finally found the light switch and turned it on, there weren't any doors in the room, and all the objects inside of it reminded me of all the memories I had buried long ago.

Now it is too late. The pain that I had deluded myself into thinking I could wish away, is still with me. The pain has always been tied to my very core, to kill it would involve killing myself too. Even going back to the darkness would not erase this fact. I have seen every nook and cranny of this room, bathed in the light I wished for so longingly that I now resent.

The only thing left is to accept the pain, not as something that I need to remove, not as something I need to hide, but as something that is fundamental to me. This is the hardest part. I always knew I was slowly killing myself, but I thought it was a fair price to not accept I'm not normal.