I Think It Smiles
Of terror, of things taken away, of darkness, of fighting and losing
One faces their fear. And then overcomes it. That is how it is in the stories, correct? If there is fear present, the protagonist will not succeed in whatever task he must face if it is not dealt with. It is the mind-killer after all, yes? The little death which brings total obliteration. I wonder if the author knew it when he wrote that Litany Against Fear; true fear that is. Perhaps. But not like this. Where I go, fear follows. Like a shadow. Or a friend. As I sit on the edge of my bed in the morning, breathing deeply, I imagine it sits next to me. Perhaps its slender fingers wrap around my shoulder, because it knows we are close enough for an embrace by now. Does it have a form? They ask. It is important to them. The fingers I just described were merely poetic license. No, it has no form. But I know it is dark. Did you know the colour black exists as is completely absorbs all visible light? This seems apt, yes. It is black, engulfing all light there is. Sometimes when I see hope, it is a dancing ball of light. Like a Will-o’-the-wisp, flitting between the trees. Sometimes it gets swallowed.
When I think of all it is, I sometimes prefer to use the word terror because it seems stronger. Terror. It can paralyze me. It can hit me in waves so hard I can hardly draw breath before the next comes. It can crawl up in tendrils through me. It can make me forget and jumble my thoughts. It can render me helpless, useless, sobbing because I know it has my mind.
There is only one thing fear can no longer do to me. Fear cannot push me from terror into pure panic. The protagonist’s magic, let’s say. I brace.
I brace. The strange thing about it is, you can see it externally. I squeeze my eyes shut. Back muscles, shoulder muscles and neck muscles contract. I hold my breath, before I remember to breathe. I brace in preparation for a physical collision. The main strain is on the mind, of course. Like so many things I cannot explain about how I am now, this is one of them. But it takes most of what my mental capacity has for my mind to brace too. But it can, and in this way I win. On the days of the most terror I can feel, I will sit and steel myself and can do nothing else until both are exhausted. The fear and my mind. Ironic. Because what is the fear a product of, after all? Two parts at war until both tire and recall their soldiers to prepare for the next day. Sometimes I sit and do nothing for a day but fight terror, and that is all because sometimes it takes all of me.
There were milestones, when I came out of the hospital. I had to reach them. I can listen to any song I wish. I read the Picture of Dorian Gray, and it is one of the best books I have read. I write for this blog. Not a terrible number of followers but even if it was one, and they could benefit from my words, I would write. I can watch visual media, although it is harder to take in than it was before. The derealization is a barrier between myself and the screen, but I can watch. I can enjoy. I have cried, and I have laughed out loud. And so, what of art? The last milestone. I had many ideas, because my first drawing was going to be special. A young girl reaching out to touch the bent head of a great dragon. Ravens perched on a tree, carrying treasures. I saw the silver locket dangling from its beak. A selkie undraping her seal skin as she walked onto the beach, soaked hair clinging to her shoulders and covering her breasts. Until I realized that I could not jump from nothing to producing these images I had created in my mind. Yes, the last thing I drew was everything I could want from a piece. Until I realized that the last thing I drew was something I could not draw at all, for my hands would not move the way I wanted them to. I was a child with a crayon who cannot yet keep in the lines. And that. Fear. Disgust. Pain. That was the last thing I drew. And so I knew what I had to do. Simple. Simple but still something to be proud of. It was a rational plan. And I decided that I would wait for a day when I felt brave enough to draw again.
But the months were tumbling into one another and this so-called “brave day” became something that merely seemed like an excuse. What must the protagonist do? Face the fear. He cannot wait forever. I could not wait forever. And so I found my pens, and began to prepare what I needed to draw. I was not fearful, until the fear understood what I was doing. It knew, and stirred. And grew. Her outline was done. But the outline was done and the problem with this was, fear began hitting. I braced.
My job now was to follow the pencil outline. It was not a complex outline, and so I began. Fear began to hit harder, striking like a snake. As venomous and malicious. If these were now waves hitting, they were massive. Black as a night without stars. I gritted my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them with what I hoped was new resolve. The problem came with the part of my mind I needed in order for the pen to move. The pen wavered slightly, and I realized it needed soothing. Like a child afraid of the dark, the dark of the starless sky. There were monsters in that place, it was unknown. The oldest and strongest kind of emotion is fear, the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. As for Lovecraft, I knew that he knew fear. And I knew he mastered it, his muse. I soothed my child who was afraid. I lulled it, gave it the kind words it needed. It’s okay if it’s a little wobbly, we’re going to thicken the lines so you won’t even see it. Look, look at how beautiful she is, and such an amazing character? We don’t even have to do any shading if you don’t want to. Don’t be afraid.
Meanwhile, fear turned to terror and struck me hard, each time like a blow. I thought my teeth would crumble. I held my beath until I remembered to breathe. But I was fighting the darkest fear there was, and my pen still moved. Slowly. But moved. It could not push me into panic. It was the unstoppable force, and I the immovable object. And so, what now? This is the final battle at the end of the book. The child chosen by the prophecy fighting the dark wizard he was always meant to. I was fighting the greatest terror there was, and my pen still moved. To draw. Fear, knowing it could not have me, should admit defeat. I was immovable and it was not quite unstoppable enough. Ah, if only. No. My mind broke and I was thrown far from my body. Dissociation. That is what I received, for all my efforts.
And so, what will you say? That I pushed myself too far, and should have waited for a better day? A braver day?
Brave days do not exist. And heroes and prophecies belong in printed pages. Don’t think I did not try again, when I felt like it was a good day. Don’t think my pen didn’t waver then, and my mind again was shattered crystal. I picked up a piece and clutched it until I bled afterwards because I didn’t understand. Stop your psychology. Do not think it scared me in my hospital bed when the words in the sentence would not string together? I tasted bile in my throat, when I could not. Terror. And reading again, where was this fear? Baby steps until I reached high literature, why did it not come? It is the same. Fine, cling to your psychology if you must. Ignore my Wilde and my Tolstoy and my Steinbeck because this is the only explanation you have. I hate to admit that I have nothing better.
How can we make it better? You question. I have no answer for you. You can watch the months tumble by as I try again and again and again. To draw a line. It’s almost amusing. What comes for me when I wish to simply trace. What it stems from, and what it has chosen to take from me. And what I want so desperately back that I allow my own mind to snap after a fight so vicious, it leaves my muscles aching and teeth crumbling.
People have called me brave, many times. I don’t believe so. What I believe, is I am afraid. I feel it now, embracing me. At night, it stands and watches me as I spill into sleep. I think it smiles.
