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Stories From the Edge of Blindness

In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.

Month

November 2021

With a Little Help from Welbutrin

My head is above water, but I am not floating. The air still tastes of ash, the remnants of a battle lingering in my eyes and in my throat. Depression is the zip tie on my tongue, the shackle on my ankle, the burden that sits heavy in my bones. It hangs on with determination, fades out of focus slowly, but it does not defeat me. I have teeth that bite back, and a voice that still wants to be heard. I go to the doctor, tell her I need help, feel the volume rising. I slip a pill into my mouth, feel the ground beneath me, see the sun is still in the sky, reach for it. I know there will be another sinking, another descent into the shadows, but for now, l let the light in, feel the glow of it on my face, and take a small step forward.

Taking up Space

I woke up yesterday feeling a bit better, thinking this bout of depression had plans for a short stay.  I was a fool.  By the afternoon, I wanted to break something.  I wanted to scream and slice myself free of my skin.  I wanted to get lost in the wind, become invisible, silent. 

When I say my blood is gloom, I mean that it weighs me down like a thousand shadows forcing their way into my mouth, filling my eyes with pin pricks of hateful images.  Depression is a slick spill of oil that leaves bruises under your skin, a chemical leak that taunts as it smashes your breath, a stain that sticks to bone.  It is what taints my blood, turns my heart into turmoil; a slow churn, a bitter lip, a death in the eye. 

It became clear yesterday how fat I am, how much space I occupy, no matter how hard I may try to disappear.  My failings, my grotesqueness laid out before me like a book of horrors, but it is a book whose pages I have scoured for a lifetime.  I did not need to be told what I already know.  I am taking up too much space, hating myself for it; no one should know I am here. I gave up dreaming long ago. 

Darkness steals the mere idea of joy, burns it up with a spark from a cruel tongue, my tongue.  When I lie down, I feel my heart beating with confusion, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow; never easy, never rhythmic, never comforting.  When I close my eyes, I see the lights that come as a harbinger of blindness, indigo triangles that stab and flash and tease.  It is never quiet in my mind.  I cannot move or laugh or love.  Depression has me in it’s grasp; she whispers, she lies, she imprisons me.  My strength is ash that sullies my own hand. 

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