Darkness that feels permanent

In the last few years it could be said that I’ve ‘come to consciousness’. Meaning that I”m more self aware and that I stay in the moment, some of the time. I’d like to think it was most of the time but I know that actually I stay in the moment for fleeting moments.

But the flip side of this is the darkness. Previously I knew this as a foggy confusion. Now I see it – I name my demons. Depression, suicidal ideation, despair.

For the physicists among you, I see it as ‘intensity is conserved’. Meaning that however good I feel in one moment is matched and balanced by the darkness I may feel in another. It can taint my positive moments but doesn’t really lift my darkness.

I’m there just now. There is a recess of my consciousness knows that it is the flip side to knowing real joy. But it is so dark. My worry is that in a moment of weakness / impulsivity / despair that I’ll do something that I regret. I do want to live, but sometimes it is so hard. Like now. It’s a ‘What’s the point !’ moment. I may derive much meaning from some moments. but this particular one feels hopeless.

The isolation feels complete.



I walk my interior landscape daily.
dry riverbeds
killing fields
sun bleached bones
epoch old.

Do I despair of the desolation
Or rejoice in the vastness of infinity?

This is for Writing 201:Poetry
Prompt – Landscape
Device – Enumeratio

Years of the Invisible

This is from guest blogger iridescent spirits, and her blog is Iridescent Spirits. I am honoured that she took that time to share this here.

‘Ah, okay, just stop whining already!’

‘It’s just your imagination!’

‘You are thinking too much!’

That’s what they all said ever since I was little. Maybe I do think too much but not in the way they meant. I had problems no one around me realised or understood as they never went through the things I did. I knew I had problems, but when every people says the same you start to think maybe they are right, even if you may know really deep inside that they have absolutely no idea. I hid my pain because I didn’t want anyone to tell me I’m whining anymore. It hurt too much. I hid it and hid it so deep in myself that after a while even I thought that there’s no problem anymore. I was sure there was no problem at all. I was happy, on the surface. I thought I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. I was glad because I thought I became stronger. And they told me I got stronger, they even praised me for not whining anymore. Even when my father died, despite the painful feeling in my chest and throat, I couldn’t shed a single tear up until the funeral.  No matter how hard I tried nothing made me cry, but the pain in the chest was still there. At one point, I even felt some kind of pride, thinking that ‘Oh! A year ago or two, how broken I would have been by something like this, but now I’m so strong! I am an adult finally!’ I wasn’t whining anymore. Nor was I smiling, talking or doing anything passionately. And for a very long time I didn’t notice that this was a real problem. Panic attacks became my regular visitors day and night. Yet, I really thought I was strong. But you know what they say, those are the strong who can face their weaknesses and brave enough to show their feelings, brave enough to cry when they need to. Despite the pain, I continued my life as if nothing had happened. I never talked about my panic attacks anymore as I knew ‘whining’ would come back right away. Instead of strong, as I believed, I became invisible, even to myself. I became one of those ignorants towards my inner self. Not only the pain went so hidden that I couldn’t find the reason of it but with that my real self. But only until another almost-tragedy. Panic attacks became my only friends, the most frightening and invisible friends, yet they were real, more than those who were made of flesh and bone. They were standing steadily by my side not willing to let me go. They knew more about me than anyone else, than me. Unlike real people, friends, doctors and so on. Everyone said I was fine, it’s just imagination or everyday stress. I’m just way too sensitive. True. But is that a bad thing? I don’t think so. Is that a weakness? No, it’s not. Can it be the reason of the pain? Yes, but not solely. People realised the problem and took my words for granted only after proper diagnosis. I felt I was still invisible, and it was still hard to talk about my illness. I often said, I allegedly have panic disorder, yet it was proven. Still, that’s it and I have to face it. It is still hard talking about it as I was misled for years that talking or thinking about it is a mere waste of time and only increases pain. But you know what? I realised as a result of this is really cruel lesson that hiding it won’t solve the problem, it only increases it. I have to fight and I intend to win, not willing to hide it anymore especially for the sake of pleasing others.

When I’m depressed I can’t imagine the good times

Try and remember the good times

How many professionals have said something like that to me ?

The thing is – the very nature of the bad times is that the good times are a fading photo of past times inaccessible. When I’m feeling very low it is because the notion of a good time seems laughable.

A definition of a bad time – when I can’t imagine being good again.

If I could then the dark mood would not be so dark, if I still had one foot in the world of happiness then that would be enough to keep me sane. But when both feet (to stretch the metaphor) are well and truly in the world of hopelessness then don’t ask me to imagine myself into another dimension.

So when someone asks me to remember the good times – I think they’ve never really experienced the darkness.

Invisible pain

Years ago I was a patient in a psychiatric ward.

I was a ‘well behaved’ service user, not problematic to the staff. I quietly planned my suicide from within an open ward. I couldn’t believe that nobody could hear the noise from inside my head. Psychiatric nurses even mistook me for a doctor one day as I visited a friend I’d made in a nearby ward (large psychiatric unit). I didn’t realise until my friend mentioned that she was supposed to be escorted at all times by a responsible adult and they’d thought I was a doctor !

Bad practice issues aside, I’m sure there was some protocol about ID missing there, what really struck me was, “Can they not see that I’m a patient!” That was the first time it struck me how invisible depression can be. I’m not sure how I thought they could read my mind….. and guess what they couldn’t.

How many of us don’t realise that people can’t see our anguish, so used to covering it up that it’s not conscious hiding anymore but habit.

So my thoughts today – find someone you trust and tell them what you’ve been hiding.


I am someone that suffers from depression. (I am also very ignorant of how to write a blog so please be patient with any weirdness on my blogsite.) I’ve come to the world of blogging because I think it is somewhere I can shout my thoughts without worrying my friends and family. They don’t like to think of me being sad, so I hide it. I would like a place to vent when I can’t in the real world. I’d like to connect with similar people. Sharing the feeling of isolation can be very life affirming……….  ironic eh!