Breathing in the dark

13th May, 2025

I don't know what I have to say today, but I feel like I really wanna write. So I hope it's something.

Right now I'm struggling to breathe again, and I think that's a pretty good metaphor for how my life is going.

I've just recovered from contracting covid, somehow for the first time ever. It was kinda a non-event; The first night and following day of symptoms sucked quite bad, and then it mostly became rote, aside from the depressive boredom of feeling like my room was getting a little smaller every day I was forced to spend in it.

And now that I've recovered from it, I can't breathe.

It feels like there's something nestled in the top of my lungs - scar tissue, air-dry clay, fresh concrete, shredded strands of balsa wood and packing peanuts. I take a deep breath and feel like I can only get 2/3 of the way there. One portion of my lungs is suffocating. It's maddening - I'm never taking the satisfaction of taking a deep, full breath for granted again. I find myself constantly stuck in manual breathing, the autonomic action failing to occur because not breathing at all is more pleasant at the moment.

But there's no actual danger. I am not suffocating. I am not lacking oxygen. I do not feel short of breath or lightheaded or unsafe. The 2/3rds of my lungs that I can successfully fill with air work perfectly fine.

Nevertheless, the animal part of my brain is terribly afraid of the sensation. It's a similar one to when I have an anxiety attack; a pressure around the top of my chest, a contradictory space that is both entirely hollow and yet cannot be filled or removed, an inability to feel like I'm breathing adequately.

And the fun thing about feeling like you're having an anxiety attack, even if it's purely physical, is that it fools the brain into thinking you are having an anxiety attack.

And here the metaphor comes in: The sensation of danger cannot always be dispelled simply by the absence of danger. And the things you feel have a troubling tendency to manifest themselves as real.

My friends love me a lot, and I love them. But lately I've been having trouble knowing how to express that love, or feel that love being expressed. There's a lot of shit going on in everyone's lives at the moment, in a way that would be almost laughably unlikely if not for the severity of it - how did everything go to shit for everyone so quickly and simultaneously?

So a lot of us are lacking energy for each other right now. I know that's "all"¹ it is - most of us run blogs like this, and the information filters around through whoever has the energy to communicate it at the moment, so I hear little things about how people are doing even if I've barely had a real conversation in weeks. I'm still mostly in the dark, but at the very least I know that dark doesn't hold any monsters in the closet.

But the absence of danger does not dispel the sensation of danger.

I still find myself creeping down the hallways of my friendships, anxious of making too much noise and alerting something lurking around a corner where I can't see.

A recent entry by one of those friends, and a spiritually-similar-but-unrelated conversation with another would imply that the best way to deal with this is to trust in my knowledge that the monsters aren't real, to boldly step around that corner with flashlight in hand and dispel the lingering uncertainty.

...But what if there is something lurking after all, content to wait quietly in the dark so long as it stays dark?

Now I have drawn attention to myself and upset the status quo - as well as significantly wounding my ability to trust that there will not be a monster around the next turn.

Perhaps it is better to stay creeping, stay unnoticed, live my life in these darkened hallways and await the return of the sun.

Sure, that life will feel desolate and echoey, deprived of colour. But it will be safe.

...And yet, something calls me to be brave. It goes against my nature to fear the bumps in the dark. I've always been most at home in those hours just after midnight, when the world is lit only by moonglow and starlight.

But therefore, neither is it in my nature to disturb the darkness with the unnecessary flare of artificial light. In most contexts, facing your fears is a good and productive thing - but it also validates them, makes them real rather than uncertainties.

Perhaps a flashlight and a bold step are not the answer either.

Perhaps I will find my own safe place, unobtrusive but not hidden, and I will relight a few of the little candles of my life. Create my own gentle ring of light, sit down, and wait.

I do not know what will come of this. Perhaps the darkness will still be disturbed despite my efforts. Perhaps the other hidden occupants of these hallways will stay as such, skirting the edge of the candlelight but never coming within view. But... perhaps eventually, it may attract some tired moths to the flame.

I'm not good at uncertainties. I could use the practice.

So if you see a candle flickering in the distance, a figure silhouetted on the far side - please, come sit with me a while.

Or if you can't, or just don't want to, that's fine. Know that I am content to wait.

The sun may not rise for a while yet, but the stars are so pretty, and I am not afraid of the dark.

🕯️🕯️🕯️