The Very Real Dangers of Darkness

When I was younger, I loved darkness. Darkness makes things seem endless. Defined spaces become without boundary. Sound seems to travel further because the senses are mixed up. Time floats by unnoticed.

Now, however, darkness is a prescribed thing. Darkness is a requirement and not a luxury. Endless spaces are just more room in which to toss and turn. Sounds are just bothersome ticks and creaks that pull me from sleep I struggle to reach. Time drags and drags and drags through an eternal night that bleeds into an eternal grey, shadowed day.

Bright light, day light, normal light, screen light… these are the things I could write about. Each of those forms of light cause me pain, and I must shield myself from them. I do not see them as a problem, but as a thing I cannot have. I cannot have sunshine. I cannot have overhead light. I cannot turn the brightness on my computer screen up from the lowest setting or go to the movies without suffering.

Those forms of light are things for which I pine.

Darkness, well… I have plenty of that.

My house is dark. My Girl Cave is lit with red light which is gentle on the eyes, but not in any way illuminating enough to, say, read by or, say, think by. The kitchen is bright during the day, so I skirt the edges with my left eye covered, or I squint. The living room is the darkest. The bedroom is adequately gloomy, especially if I hide under pillows. Darkness, darkness, everywhere. It’s inescapable.

The darker it is, the more darkness I can stand. The more darkness I can stand, the more I miss the light. Darkness is addictive because it is slightly less painful to be in pitch blackness than in any form of light, including candle light.

Funnily enough, the Topamax that I take reduces my night vision, so I am night blind.

I am in the dark in the darkness.

I hate the darkness now. I hate it so much.

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