I opened this page to write and then stared at the blank page. Ideas are there, I can feel them, but the ability to bring coherence to them continues to elude me. My thoughts are scrambled, directionless, lacking. I thought I was less confused when I opened the page, but I was wrong.
This is one of the many things about The Black that is so hard to explain to someone who has not had the experience. I am an intelligent, articulate and witty person. I take pride in my use of language and my ability to spell. I say this not to boast, but to create a base to show the extent to which The Black degrades me. My thinking is slow, ponderous and dull. Wit is beyond me. Spelling is a challenge – I fumble at the keys, almost as if I am hitting them at random rather than with planned design – and actual words, well they appear, but not with the ease that they should.
Should. That is a dangerous word to someone like me. I should be able to write and think and express myself clearly. I should be able to type a four letter word without having to use the backspace or delete keys. But, the fact is, I cannot, at least not with the same fluidity.
That I cannot brings frustration. Frustration brings more fumbling, and the cycle continues.
So I pause. I breathe and I gather myself. I can do this. If I persevere, if I accept my limitations, I can commit my thoughts, I can bring order to them, and I will find myself writing. To do otherwise is to allow The Black its victory and I will not give it that.