My Fear of the Dark
The nothingness
Being carried home by Derek,
my hand clamped over my eyes
so the dark couldn’t get in —
That black nothingness that knew my name.
The loft hatch watching.
The landing breathing.
The dark too loud.
(It dropped like a portcullis, trapping me.)
No escape down the stairs.
One of my earliest fears.
I still fear escape routes today —
lifts a hard no,
stairs the only way out. All of it rooted here.
That black nothingness that knew my name.
Did I imagine vampires and were wolves,
or was it simply darkness —
the way it consumes you without needing teeth.
If only it had been fantasy.
If only the fear had been pretend — my imagination, not my truth
That black nothingness that knew my name.
Then school:
learning that humans had made a weapon
that could destroy the world.
Nuclear power as curriculum.
A project that became a nightmare.
Me climbing the wall.
A week excused for “not coping,”
as if coping was ever the point.
I remember the fear like yesterday.
That black nothingness that knew my name.
The TV wheeled in —
Sunshine Gate,
wireless radio,
a learning device for children —
and my childhood ending
in a single sentence broadcast to the room.
Destruction as human nature.
That black nothingness that knew my name.
Running out of school.
Dragged back in.
Escorted to the library for the day.
Male teachers = danger.
My ND wiring couldn’t compute it —
I didn’t know caring or teaching could come in a male form.
The Whitley years: divorces = many men = guard up.
That black nothingness that knew my name.
Instructions given.
Instructions lost.
Repeat.
Repeat.
REPEAT.
My brain skipping like a scratched record,
unable to take on board the information,
mistaken for stupidity.
(Auditory processing.
Working memory differences.
Visual learning dominance.)
That black nothingness that knew my name.
Made to feel stupid
until my skin thickened
into armour —
something adult,
something no child should ever have needed.
That black nothingness that knew my name.
Comments
Post a Comment