There was always a darkness in me that I’d tried to escape, pretending it was not there.

I noticed very early in life, barely an adolescent, that I tend to spiral downwards. For all my positivity and belief that all will eventually be well, I can deal with a great deal of pain. I not only deal with it but also welcome it, feel it in my bones, embracing the tears I need to shed to remember that I am alive.

Naturally, pretending that part of me did not exist resulted from being a weird teenager. Being called a witch time and time again, feeling like a stranger inside my own family, can do this to you. It was wrong, so I hid it. I hid it deeper and deeper as time passed, and my friends changed.

At a certain point, nearly nobody remembers how I only wore black for years and years, and all my current friends just saw the pink I put on display. I was the most extraordinary charade, the ultimate deception fooling everyone around me, including myself.

And it only got worse after the kids were born; I was permanently afraid to touch them with my darkness. I was always controlling my emotions, pretending to be a good wife, excellent worker, and remarkable mother, and drowning in shadows alone in the background.

It has been an exhausting existence for so long that I have no idea who I am anymore. Embracing the darkness feels like coming home, and that is a dangerous thought.

I want to tip my toes on the surface of the dark lake, spread the mud on my skin, and be covered whole. I want more than I thought possible to be selfish, not care, and do exactly and only what I want.

So, no, I don’t think I will emerge from this adventure with my soul unscathed. I am positive grief and pain might drown me. I am entirely sure I will never be the same again.