Writing in the Dark is Tricky

There’s this disturbing game I played once when I was younger. And I don’t use the term disturbing lightly. It really did sit on the wrong side of my icky radar. The game involves a closed box with a hole in the side. Someone has placed an object or thing inside the box, and as the game player, your job is to put your hand inside the box and try and figure out what it is. I don’t know why I was so uncomfortable with it, but I’m starting to think it’s because I have a very large and animated imagination. And this went superdrive crazy if the object had a moving aspect to it.

I could never seem to calm my imagination down and make myself think logically, it’s the wild west in here. It really would have been helpful to think things such as, “Why would my mum put an alligator in this tiny box?” or “What sort of psycho would someone have to be to put a bear trap in one of these?” But I didn’t. See I told you, absolutely wild.

I’m currently experiencing this in real life.

I have shoved my arm good and proper into this box called missions, and I’m feeling around for whatever it is that is supposed to be known in there. I don’t know why but the unknown of it all sets me off something chronic. And I’m making it 1000 times worse by shaping what I’m experiencing into words.

If I was to play that game and say out loud every single thing that I thought might be inside the box, people would have a good laugh at my expense. They’d be able to see exactly how crazy my mind gets when it’s placed under stress. They’d know me a little better. And that’s a bit scary.

But even knowing that, I’m still here, typing away.

There are people who have been sitting in this ‘Missions Room” for a long time now, and their eyes have adjusted. They can see their surroundings clearly and have categorised each object and filed it away in their understanding. And here I come bowling in with my unadjusted eyes, squinting in the dark, and then writing about it for everyone to read. Bit of a cocky move really. I’m probably seeing alligators and bear traps where bookends and chairs are resting.

But there are two reasons I’m still choosing to do it.

One, I hope that someone somewhere who ends up walking into the same room will find that someone was stupid or brave enough to write about it while still in the mess of it all. They’ll see the articles about bear traps and alligators and they’ll hopefully feel understood and seen. I hope I’m able to articulate the fear and the chaos of walking this path, knowing that there is fear, but understanding that a lot of the fear is just because it’s unknown.

Two, I’m hoping to be able to write again later on, when my own eyes have adjusted to the room. I’m hoping I’ll be able to bring a little bit of clarity to a time that is so mental, so crazy, that it can’t be understood fully while it’s being walked. Hindsight will bring a deeper understanding that will give these earlier posts context.

In the meantime, I’m taking someone else’s word for it. It does require a degree of trust, which I don’t often give willingly. But maybe that’s the lesson this time. Trust others.

Trust that mum did not put an alligator in the box.