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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.

Category

depression

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. 

Storm

There is a storm in my head, a rage that chokes me, imminent disaster that pricks the tip of my tongue. My skin is so heavy, scratchy like a blanket in the heat, filthy with the detritus of hiding inside it for too long. These are the days I want to scream and run into the mouth of the sun, burn the pain until it is ash that can be carried away in the wind. I am trapped in a mind that can’t forgive, behind eyes plunged into darkness by a laundry list of disease, under the relentless thumb of depression. I write from this place for relief, catharsis, but also as a looking glass, a pinhole into unexplainable sadness. If you have been here, you have tasted the heart of the storm; if you haven’t, maybe what I write, while in the grip of the disease, will help paint a picture. Maybe I am just a self serving asshole, stuck at seventeen, unable to move beyond loss. Most likely none of it matters, not the words or the feelings or the bruises I inflict on myself.

As I tried to fall asleep last night, images of the last time I saw my mother came into my mind; I felt terrified and anxious, as if the memories were needles under my skin. I begged my mind to shut the images off, to let me sleep. I took a Xanax. I thought about taking a hundred Xanax. I can’t remember how long it took to fall asleep.

Today I couldn’t move, couldn’t do the everyday things, simple things, brushing teeth, combing hair, making tea. I felt deep hatred for myself. I wished I could disappear into a place so quiet and a body so tiny, no one would ever be able to find me. I lost all direction and forgot to feel time passing over me. It rained all day. I closed the curtains to block out the sun.

Tonight I am awake, unable to sleep, again. I can feel my heart breaking, falling into a chaotic rhythm that will shake me with brutal force. I am terrified to lie down; it’s worse when I lie down. I feel as if every part of me is defective, failing, a reminder of my weakness. Perhaps I showed up too late, for dreams and joy and the happy ending we are all supposed to be searching for. I wonder how long it will take to fall asleep tonight…..

Shades of Bleak

The darkness is swallowing me up again. I exist in a confined space, one part sadness, the other anger; sometimes the two become indistinguishable. I am a flame of rage in a freezing wind, burning and extinguished. I am a hollowed out heart, a fade to grey, a bird who forgot she ever wanted to fly. Even in the greenest of pastures, the bleak shades of my nature take over and I wonder why sorrow is the language I know best, why the fire dies inside me every time I begin to feel even the slightest glimmer of warmth. I am selfish, ungrateful, vision narrow, hands like ice. Hope has no colour here, no texture or sound.

I am a sliver of bone on a quest for escape, greed in a cruel fist, a lie that waits at the back of the throat. I pop pills, drown in booze, tie myself up in knots that always unfurl. I am steps never taken and a road grown over with brambles. I am the thorn in a dark night, unkind laughter, vapid tongue. I try so hard to become fiction, to become wind, to become the storm.

I still allow myself to wonder, does the uncovering of darkness shed light? Can wings grow if they have never known the sky? Tonight, I wait for the rain to cleanse me, or perhaps just wash me away.

Remembering How To Breathe

It’s been a rough week. Lots of tears. Lots of sun falling out of my mouth, leaving shadows to choke me and change the taste of the landscape. When I feel this way, all I want is to disappear, to blend into the chipped paint, hide beneath the floor boards. I cry while looking at cooking shows. I cry sitting at the computer, washing dishes, riding in the car watching the filthy city shrink under the waves of heat that oppress and burn. I am coming unglued. I have forgotten how to breathe.

In getting ready to move, I sink into the lives of people I have loved, people who have died. I am tearing away scar tissue, leaving wounds vulnerable to the teeth of time. I am awash in memories that leave me desperate for youth, for the feeling of my mother’s arms around me, for the delight in my brother’s boyish laughter, for the scratch of my father’s beard against my cheek. The weight of missing people presses against my eyes and taints the color of the sky. I am coming unglued. I have forgotten how to breathe.

I am tying up the loose ends of my broken body, retrieving my white canes from their hiding places, spending day after day in dental torture chairs, wishing I hadn’t allowed myself to get so fat. My heart has been buried so deep beneath the flesh, I no longer recognize its rhythm against my ribs. The mirror is my punisher, the fist that reminds me I have failed again, that I will never be good enough. I am coming unglued. I have forgotten how to breathe.

My book got a mediocre review. It crushed me. It pissed me off. It left me wanting to quit writing, to burn through the lines on the page, scatter hope into the dirt. I would have preferred a scathing review to the placid temperature of the three star review. Intellectually I get that my writing isn’t for everyone, but between love and hate the color drains away. It is easy to forget that it is only my heart on the page, my stories of coming unglued, of forgetting how to breathe.

But, life is a coin. Tarnished in some places, sparkling in others. It is sadness and joy passed through fingers, dropped and forgotten, discovered and cherished, held tightly against your palm. Life is the shadow and the light, the dream come true and the longing that is shattered. I am not unscathed. I don’t want to be. I sit in the center of what hurts, because I know that is where joy also lives. Sometimes I need to come unglued, so I can remember how to breathe.

“Things My Mother Left Behind” Available for Pre-Order

I am sitting in my very quiet writing space, typing this in a state of simultaneous disbelief and total joy. I am thrilled beyond the sky to announce that my book, “Things My Mother Left Behind”, is available for pre-order, on Amazon. This is a life long dream come true for me, and I will be forever grateful to River Dixon; an amazing writer, publisher extraordinaire and founder of the incredible Potter’s Grove Press.


To pre-order the ebook version of “Things My Mother Left Behind” you can go here. To visit my Amazon Authors Page, you can go here. To explore the beautiful and diverse catalog from Potter’s Grove Press, you can go here.

I am so grateful for all of the love and support I have received from this incredible community over the years; it has given me a sense of courage I never thought I would feel, and helped a life long dream become reality.

Shards of Cherry Blossoms

My recorded poetry series continues with the fifth of six poems originally published in Chantarelle’s Notebook. If you have a minute and are so inclined, check out my YouTube page and subscribe!!!!


Stiff Trigger

My latest recorded poem is up on YouTube. It is the third of six poems originally published in Chanterelle’s Notebook. Kendal Bell, editor of Chantarell’s Notebook, chose to nominate this poem for a Best of the Net award, which was a huge honor.

All of the credit for visuals goes to my amazing husband Joe Richardson!


Untethered

I was in the car with my husband yesterday, Thomson Twins jangling in the background, when I started to think of what it means to be untethered.  I am parentless, floating without the anchors that rooted my bones to the earth, my blood to the sky. My identity was already fractured, unstable at best, but now I become the definition of loss each time I open my eyes to inhale the sun, each time I close them again to swallow the moon.  I have been emptied out so many times, turning to the memory of voices that fade with the passing of years.  I became old when I should have been steeped in youth, threw my eyes into the grave, forgot how to look to the sky for solace, for discovery.  I am recognized by the shape of my diseases, ailments that strangle my determination, but I don’t recognize my own face. I am the word on the page that erases itself but never stops searching for sound. I am a war, a need to be invisible and seen, to be silence and noise. Is this what it means to be untethered?

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