I find one of the hardest Parts of recovery

March 23

I find one of the hardest
Parts of recovery
Is finding just how far
To let the darkness in.

Keep the door locked,
And the darkness tosses
Molotov cocktails
Through the back windows
And burns the whole
Fucking place down.

Fling the door wide open
And the darkness
Moves right in,
Acting like it owns the place.

It's hard: the
More I shine a
Light into the darkness,
The more it tends to recede.
Which sounds like
It's the point, right?

But a darkness receded
Is still present,
Still breathing and pulsing
And waiting to come screaming back.

I don't know how
To forgive the darkness.
I don't know how
To love the darkness.
I don't know how
To stop being so goddamn afraid.

All the tools in my box
Sometimes seem scant comfort,
Like they're buckets and shovels
From the dollar store,
Building sandcastles on the beaches
Of my mind, and the tide
Is always threatening to come
Back in and fire waves
Like warning shots
That seem to strike
Unerringly at the heart
Of my mixed metaphor excuse
For mental health.

I have never had "mental health."
I hate that fucking term.
Normalcy was a gift denied to me
Without me even realizing
It had been snatched away
Until I had spent decades
Assuming it was a prize
Not worth playing for.

Oh what I'd give for that:
A normal life, a calm mind,
An untroubled soul.

But then the darkness says,
Without me you wouldn't
Know the light.
I have taught you so much,
And now you would deny me?

I guess what maybe
I'm trying to say
Is that I'm tired of living
With the darkness,
But I don't know what
I am without it.
I'm trying so hard to
Find out, but the darkness
Just laughs.