Drowning in the Dark: Learning Not to Breathe

It’s time for some soulveining—I believe I’ve found another fracture in my soul that needs tending. So, it’s time to bring out the glue and gold paint and begin the work.

But first things first. My wife spoke with the hospital where we hope to have the surgery performed, and my son has been tentatively scheduled for his heart procedure, pending insurance approval. While that’s a positive step forward, I can’t shake the sickness in my stomach at the thought of sending him into that room without me. That thought has consumed me all day, which brings me to something else.

During a conversation with a friend today, we touched on those moments when darkness creeps in. I joked about feeling like a Batman villain after hearing my own words spoken aloud. I admitted that, for some reason, I feel comfortable in the dark and often resist leaving it. Why is that? When the weight of the world feels like it’s crushing my very soul, why do I cling to it instead of trying to escape? It’s as if I dig my claws in deeper, holding on for dear life, unwilling to let the darkness fade, no matter how many good things are happening around me.

It’s almost like an addiction—the suffocating weight of the water rushing in around me. And when it finally reaches my face, even though I know it’s not good for me, I open my mouth and take a deep breath. The water, thick with self-doubt, fear, regret, and self-hatred, fills my lungs. In breathing it in, I allow these things to take hold, further fracturing my soul. That’s the best way I can describe it.

But I have to find a way to stop this. Most importantly, I can’t keep self-destructing. I think the first step is to tell myself not to breathe—no matter how tempting it may be.