It is so difficult to write when you are in the midst of The Black. To be blunt, it is so difficult to do much of anything. That is part of the insidiousness of the illness – everything becomes a task, thus everything becomes a cause for self-denigration. The Black thrives on self-denigration, feeds on it, fuels itself by it. How can you not feel less about yourself when you can barely get out of bed?
Less. Everything about The Black promotes less. Less memory, less cognitive awareness, less motivation, less will, less interaction, less you, less.
You see yourself. You see another. You compare. You see you have less to trouble you. You will always see this. You berate yourself. You lessen yourself. The Black grows. Only The Black. And as it grows, you diminish. You become less.
How is it that something within us can be so large while we are so small? The Black is a universe of its own. We are insignificant by comparison.
We are less than. We are less than who we want to be. We are less than how others perceive us. We are less.