The Pit of Despair

In the darkest part of my mind, there exists a black hole devoid of happiness. I think of it as a pit of despair, for that is what it feels when I fall in. And every so often I do fall, or rather I am pushed over the edge and am forced to climb my way back out.

I always remain at the edge of this pit, looking down at the darkness, hoping that I don’t fall in again. But there is always something that tips my weight just the slightest in that direction, sending me down into the dark abyss. The tiniest nudge and I fall, my fragile mental state always ready to break.

It’s been this way for a few years now. I don’t know why or what created this pit, though I have my suspicions. Perhaps it was my childhood, always over-criticized and never good enough. From the teacher who repeatedly tried to correct the way I hold a pencil to the dental hygienist who kept telling me I wasn’t allowed to switch hands while brushing to my critical father who did not know how to love his own children.

I feel that the dark pit has always existed, perhaps a genetic defect that pushed other members of my family to drugs, alcohol, and murder. The darkness has grown over the years, becoming more prominent within my mind, waiting to consume me. I fight the rage within, keeping it held back over the years until it turned to fear. I avoided addictions, seeing what happened to others and not wanting to become like them.

It seems this dark pit has become much worse since surgical menopause, converting my fight response to sheer flight and fright. Too often I am paralyzed by fear: fear of the unknown, of the many phobias that have plagued me throughout my entire life, or of yet again feeling the betrayals that have become far too common in my life. I relive trauma in my dreams and my mind is forever racing as if a dozen freight trains were rushing past on only two tracks, avoiding collision until one day it happens and I fall.

Most people don’t understand this struggle. They say “you just need to think differently,” as if I purposefully choose to live with a dark hole inside my head. With thoughts of rage and fear combined into a swirl of dark clouds that seep into every part of my head. I don’t know how to close the wound, and I don’t know why it grows. But it does grow bigger every time I fall in, making the next climb out even harder.

Every time I somehow manage to climb out of that pit. I don’t know why or how. I except one day I will find myself stuck and either my life will end or I will become a mere shell of myself, unaware of my surroundings. The darkness cares not for loved ones — they serve only as judges in my despair, not healers. They insist that I must learn to cope with it, and yet it grows bigger each time, making it an impossible feat to overcome.

My life is ruled by this pit of despair. All I can do is hope to teeter on the edge for a while longer before my next inevitable plunge into the darkness, alone and miserable. I fear nothing can save me.

Follow my mental health journey on my blog, Chicken Soup with Rice, or read more of my work on Medium, Vocal, and Amazon.

Originally published on Medium on April 20, 2023