I feel buried beneath the weight of a fog that permeates my thoughts. I am on a dangerous precipice between blindness and sight, my strides uncertain and guided by terror. I find myself again and again, tangled up in a desire to escape the person I have always been and the disease that murders my eyes with slow, but voracious determination. I long to be extraordinary and graceful, but in wakefulness I am defective and covered in unsightly cracks.
As a child I struggled to catch up, racing and climbing on legs that weren’t strong enough, pushing against the barriers of a mind that wasn’t expansive enough. In conversation, unable to keep up, I float away, tangled in an extraordinary web of words that sparkle and splash the edges of my consciousness. I dream in language rather than concepts or theory. I don’t get your jokes or understand the machinations of a corrupt government. I drift because the landing is too jarring and too cruel.
I have mostly felt like something to be kept hidden in the shadows, to remain unmentioned and shackled. Beneath the lights, I am beaten with rods of ridicule and pity. How sad that she is the blind one, the fat one, the ugly one, the broken one. But I have learned to love the outskirts, to languish in the disappearing edges of expectation . I have learned that I can be the quiet one, and in the silence there is safety and a stillness that muffles the chaos of loathing.
I know that I am not unique or special; just a shadow of a woman suffering, like everyone, from the malaise of the human condition. It’s just that sometimes, in moments that glimmer and tantalize, I dream that I will wake up, no longer blind, no longer human.