I have always lived under a veil of darkness, so it seems fitting to me that I am going blind. Even as a child I drifted toward sadness. When I was six, I was asked by my teacher to write a thanksgiving story. My fellow students all wrote stories about pilgrims and big festive dinners with happy shiny families, but I wrote about a turkey who commits suicide. I have always wondered how I knew what suicide was at only six years old. Why did I feel connected to sadness and discontent at such a young age? Well, one thing is for sure, it isn’t a surprise that I am the very sad middle-aged woman that I am today.
I feel as if I have spent my whole life trying to feel happiness and to hold onto it for more than a few moments. I seem to always return to dark places and habitual longings to simply disappear. I have dreamed of being anyone but me and felt disappointed over and over again upon waking in the same damaged skin. I have yearned for darkness and now darkness is coming. My eyes are failing me just as I have always failed myself and everyone around me. It all fits so perfectly together, the tragic puzzle pieces of who I am or who I have allowed myself to become. I am wrapped so tightly in sadness and self loathing that I cannot breathe without their cruel touch; they have defined me for so long and my fight is gone. The older I get the more easily I give up and give in. I am waiting now. Waiting to go blind. Waiting for the world to disappear. Maybe I will disappear too.