Edema Rue

The darkness was coming again. It seeped into the edges of her mind, filling it with things that did not belong there. The darkness had control, at night. The darkness did as it pleased, using her mind as a child would a playground. She let it. What else could she do? She was so tired. So tired of fighting it. So tired of trying and trying and failing. Falling. Why fight, if you were always doomed to fail? Why try, if you were destined to fall? That was the darkness. It did things to her, changed the way she thought, the things she believed. It all seemed perfectly logical, when she thought it. The darkness did that. It took all hope, all light, and made the pain seem natural. The darkness was infinite. Endless. Who could she trust, when her own mind was corrupt? How could she keep going, when she never knew which thoughts were hers and which were the darkness? Because it was always there. Oh, it ruled at night, but it never truly left. It taunted her, teased her, ruined her. 

And yet…there was a hope. The hope. The only hope. What was darkness, except an absence of light? Darkness cannot exist where there is light. And there was a light.  A light that could conquer the darkness. But this light…it wasn’t a lightbulb or a flashlight; there wasn’t a button or switch to press. It was a fire. You had to build it. You had to feed it constantly. If you didn’t…if you didn’t, it would die, and the darkness would come back, all the stronger because she had failed. And there was the question again. Why try if you will always fail? Why climb if it only gives you further to fall? Were these questions her own, or were they the darkness’s? Did it matter? STOP! She needed it to stop. All the questions, all of it. She just wanted it to stop. No more thinking. No more choices. Just…oblivion. Yes, oblivion. That would be nice. That was why she had this knife, wasn’t it? No. NO! She couldn’t…what was she thinking?! This would serve the darkness. No, no, she was being dramatic. Everything was okay. EVERYTHING WAS OKAY. She had to…she had to…she just needed sleep. Yes, yes. Sleep. Sleep would fix it. 

But she knew, deep inside, she knew that sleep wouldn’t fix it. She knows that sleep won’t fix it. She knows what will. But she’s weak. She’s tired. How can she go on? How can she keep living? She can’t hold on for one more day. She can’t smile as long as she used to. Her facade is failing. Her armor is broken. She’s trying so hard to submit, to build her fire. She’s too weak. It’s ironic: too weak to give in. But it’s true. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

She knows that everyone has their own struggles and trials. She knows. But she can’t overcome them. Every time the darkness comes, it threatens to overwhelm her. She’s terrified of what will happen when it does. Sometimes she finds rest. Sometimes, she can keep going. She’s happy. But the darkness always returns. And once the darkness arrives, it’s too late to build the fire. When the darkness comes over her, she can’t see the light. She knows it’s there, but it isn’t with her. It feels like it will never be there again. But it will come. As surely as the darkness will always come back, the light will be there. When the darkness retreats, for just the littlest while, she can build her fire. And she swears that she will hold on. Because not everyone does, and she wants to keep others from submitting. She wants to help them find the light, even though she can’t always do it herself. She knows that she’ll learn. As long as she can hold on, she can survive. But that’s easy to say now. Because the darkness will return. And when it does…when it does, she can only hope that her fire has enough wood. 

I am “this girl.” 

You may be “this girl.” 

There are thousands of “these girls” everywhere. Remember them. They are strong.