Overcoming the Darkness
The fluorescent tubes that line the ceiling emit a faint, insect-like buzz as I walk the corridor, the sound prickling at the edges of my nerves. I force the thought aside, reminding myself—yet again—why I’m here and how everything spiralled into this moment.
Entering the meeting hall, I’m met by a circle of pale faces, each pair of eyes holding the same cocktail of fear and panic. We’re all damaged in one way or another… just like me.
I shuffle to the lone empty chair, completing the ring. Rather than meet anyone’s gaze, I let my eyes settle on the scratched wooden floorboards.
“Welcome, Emma. I’m glad you changed your mind and decided to join us tonight.”
Dr Wright’s warm smile is meant to reassure, but it takes sheer willpower not to scream that it wasn’t a choice at all. We both know he coerced me into attending.
I give a curt nod—nothing more.
“Well, now that we’re all here, let’s introduce ourselves. Remember, this is a safe space, so be open and honest—that’s why we’re here.”
His voice is maddeningly calm; I’ve never seen Dr Wright lose control, which is eerie in its own right.
Silence hangs for a beat—then, as always, someone fills it.
“My name is James, and I was diagnosed with schizophrenia.”
The guy to my right shifts in his seat. Wright nods encouragingly, but James says no more.
A hesitant beat, then: “My name is Abigail, and I have dissociative identity disorder.”
She looks ready to vanish into the linoleum.
The ritual continues—Lesedi, then Masego—until only I remain silent. I feel foolish, out of place, tempted to bolt and barricade myself in my room. Instead, I sit, jaw locked, refusing to look up.
Wright won’t let the silence last. His mistake. One he’ll regret.
“This only works if you share, Emma. You know that.”
Fine.
“My name is Emma. I’m bipolar—and, since we’re being honest, I do not want to be here.”
Every word lands hard, deliberate. If I’m forced to attend, they’ll know it’s against my will.
Wright leans in. “Let’s unpack that. Why don’t you want to be here?”
Because he’s baiting me, angling for the story everyone whispers about—the story of why I’m locked up. He won’t release me until he has it.
“This is pointless,” I snap. “Talking won’t fix anything. The only thing that ends my problems is the end—of everything and everyone. None of you are ready for that.”
“Ready for what, exactly?” James’s voice trembles, and my heart twists. This is why I never share.
Wright presses on, soft but relentless. “You lost your family, Emma. No one knows what happened. Wouldn’t sharing help?”
Chairs creak around me. Curiosity overwhelms caution. They’ve seen my nightly episodes when lights go out; mystery clings to me like static. In a place like this, knowing someone else might be worse off is the only comfort. Psych in psychiatric.
“It was the darkness…”
The words slip out—a crack in my control. Eyes lock on me.
“It sneaks, creeps, envelopes you. It drowns you until you can’t breathe or fight.” The words pour, unstoppable. Maybe unburdening will help—maybe.
“I’m sure we all feel that darkness,” Wright says, ever soothing. “It comes in different forms. That’s why we’re here.”
“You misunderstand, Doctor. I’m not speaking in metaphors. This darkness is real.”
“Emma, to overcome problems we must first name them. The darkness isn’t—”
“It is real.” I cut him off, voice rising. “You pretend to care, but you don’t take us seriously. Want to know what happened to my family? Why I lose it every night at lights-out? It’s the damned darkness that won’t leave me alone!”
I grab my chair and hurl it against the wall; splinters fly. Orderlies materialize, pinning my arms. A sting of sedation, and oblivion swallows me.
I wake strapped to my bed, limbs leaden. Panic sets in; I thrash, calling for help that doesn’t come. Eventually the door clicks open.
Dr Wright stands in the doorway, clipboard hugged to his chest. “I’m sorry, Emma. Group therapy was too much too soon. We still have work ahead.”
Tears seep into my hair; a sob sticks in my throat. Why can’t this end?
“Tomorrow is another day,” he says gently. “Today was a setback, but we’ll do better.” He leaves, and the door locks behind him.
Exhaustion pulls me under once more.
Dreams claim me—dreams of darkness so dense it blinds and disorients. I drift, screams of those lost before me spiralling through the void. Perhaps this is hell, and perhaps I deserve it.
Time loses meaning. When you float long enough, you can’t die; you only beg for release. My own scream tears loose—and travels. It echoes down the real hallways of this oppressive place, wrenching jaws tight and chilling every heart that hears it.
Lights flicker. Without warning, the entire building plunges into blackness—emergency bulbs dead on arrival. The darkness is thick, suffocating, different. Every heartbeat catches. My screams continue, fueling a bloom of panic that spreads like wildfire.
For the others, the night will eventually end, though it may scar. For me, night is life—my eternal fate.
No one truly understands. Each person’s darkness is unique, incomparable. Even shared, our stories never fully translate.
Depression. Oppression. Repression.
Sometimes you crave the end, wish for courage to take that final step. Yet occasionally a glimmer breaks through, making the next stretch bearable. That moment—the choice to fight or surrender—is the hardest.
I have that glimmer. I cling to it through pain and terror.
My son… my beautiful boy.
I can’t be with him—don’t even know where he is—but I’m grateful he survived my darkness, that night of horror. Somewhere, he’s alive and safe.
The darkness consumed me, twisted me, and took my husband and sister. But it did not claim him. He is the light beyond the tunnel, the proof that the dark isn’t absolute.
