Everything I really want to say is below, but I imagine that it requires a bit of an explanation. I wrote a post in January called “The Depressed woman” where I talk about how I feel like 2 people. But lately I have been feeling in between my two separate characters, and I feel like I’m falling. Here I reimagine my journey from me to the depressed woman as a fall from white to black.
In the white. Up high. In heaven. I feel so good. Playing fetch with my dog while my daughter sings on a beautiful summer night. I feel glorious. Every day is a new chance to make something beautiful. So make change. Every day the sun rises and I can start over. Smash up the day before and make something with the pieces. Make new pieces out of the old. Take something small and make it important.
But as I start to fall, the light changes. It’s so much prettier. Colorful. Not just pure. But watercolors that fade into a swirl of oil paints. And when I fall slowly I get a chance to see them. To look closely and see how beautiful everything is. And nothing is static. I’m falling ever so slowly so everything changes as I go. Fading from light to dark. From translucent to opaque. And I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to create beauty. It spills out like blood.
I can’t say I’m not scared. I’m scared of falling. But I’m scared of being up high, too. Up in the white. It’s so clean. And colorless. And I know that all I have to do is jump. To be enveloped.
I never jump. I trip. I stumble. Into this purgatory. The gray. Not sick. Not well. Just right in the sliver of brightest color. It’s such a dangerous place to be. But I love it here in the gray.
I won’t stay though. I can’t stay. Gray is just between the white and black. It’s just what I see while I fall. The in between days. The possibility days.
(Looking into the) Black:
One of the biggest lies she tells me is that it is warm in the black. That because I feel warm in the gray I will feel warmer in the black. But I never do. When I get there it is like a vacuum. No air. No heat. No light. Emptiness. All that seemed clear becomes smudged. Noting makes sense except darkness.
And I have it in me to be the woman in the black. I have it in me to die as the woman in the black. And no matter how glorious I feel as I fall, there is no soft landing. Nothing will catch me. I’ll just fade into the black. If I stay, it will all fade to black.
Maybe I can stay a little longer. Just for a moment. Or maybe I can leave just a part of myself here. Maybe I can visit more often. Maybe I can take a piece of this with me when I return to heaven. Bring some color to the light. Bring some dirt back to the clean. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I’m not good enough for heaven. I can never be all white. I can’t escape the black. I keep her locked away, but she keeps ripping open old wounds. And I trip. And I fall. And then I feel like I’m home. In the color. So why can’t I stay? Why can’t I stop falling and just stay?