It is not the dark allowed by a slow sunset that scares me. It is the dark allowed by ominous clouds that allows no sunlight, no moonlight, and no stars that scares me to my core.
It overshadows me like the blackest ink….. a thick, sticky, seeping darkness that covers my world. It is that darkness, that black ink, that highlights the scarlet in my life. The darkness covers all the colors of the rainbow – except for scarlet. It is as if the scarlet was placed in wax – never penetrated, only magnified.
This darkness brings whirlwinds of words that have been spoken, deeds that have been done, pain, and sorrow. The winds whisper, they beat me, they chafe me. I can not shield myself from them, only succumb to the coarseness as they rip through my world. The darkness only allows for glimpses of scarlet, as I am thrown off balance by the winds.
Will I survive. Should I survive. Do I deserve to survive. They are not questions, they are statements. Statements written in scarlet, written by own hands and hands of others.
Who decides survival? Who decides who is worthy of survival? What is survival if it does not ever lead to life? What is life if it is lived in black and scarlet? Theses are my questions as wind burn stings my skin and pierces my heart.
Yet, I am to walk as though there is illumination. Smile and say that my wind burned skin is actually sun kissed, and my shattered heart is beautiful stained glass. It is expected that I stand tall and proud as the darkness blankets the winds that pick up stones and sling them at my tattered self. It is expected that I proclaim judgement on myself for the sake of others peace. There is no room for regret, remorse, or hurt. Those feelings allow light to penetrate through the darkness, and those who write in scarlet pour the ink as well……
It is this darkness that shrouds my life. It lives and breathes with the names depression and anxiety. It identifies as functioning bipolar.