Its icy tendrils creep in from the shadows of my mind.

And I shake.

It comes when I am alone, trying to sleep at night,

And it whispers.

It whispers of worthlessness, of incompetence, of lovelessness,

And I believe it.

And I am afraid.

 

It calls my name in the quiet moments, when my confidence has begun to grow,

And I blush.

Because it doesn't matter that no one knows, I know.

And I can't hide.

I can't hide from who I am when no one sees.

And I tremble.

And I am ashamed.

 

It comes near when I least expect it: happy and here one moment, in the past the next.

And I remember.

I try to call myself back to the present, but like a bad movie it does not stop.

And I wish.

I wish that I had done something, anything, different: Drowning in what ifs,

And I sigh.

And I am regretful.

 

It creeps in when I am happy or content, consuming hopes and dreams.

And I fight.

But it is quicksand: the more I struggle, the more quickly I sink. Deeper and deeper into hoplessness.

And I hate.

I hate being a prisoner to myself, hate being helpless and hopeless, hate being desperate, and I am furious that my own strength is not enough to win.

And I lose.

And I am numb.

 

Fear. Shame. Regret. Depression.

Attacking. Consuming. Invading. Devouring.

People call them "personal demons"

And that's accurate, I suppose.

But to me, they are part of something bigger, more intimidating:

The Nameless Darkness.

A faceless, formless foe always lurking, but this I know:

The only way to conquer darkness is drag it from the shadows, to illuminate it with light,

So this is me fighting back tonight.