I spend a considerable part of my days writing, reading and commenting on blogs. I especially focus on the topic of bipolar illness. Some brave souls write about their ventures into the dark side or more specifically the dark side of a bipolar life. I am not nearly as brave and I only write brief remnants of dumpster diving into that which is my darker side. It seems the more I experience the polarities of this illness the less light there is to ponder the dark side.

It may only be an excuse for me to say I need more light. I have had plenty of times that I was encouraged and inspired to bring the darkness into the light, instead I ran from my fears.  In my younger days I took a few glimpses into the dark memories but I rarely paused long enough to learn from what I saw. The shear darkness of my bipolar experience has been so much in my face that I try to look away and pretend it is not me.

There is something about talking out loud to a trusted friend that helps open your eyes to the sight of the dark side. Then without tears there comes a snapshot of the darkness.  I shared with a friend some of the dark days  that have been mine within the last three years. I am afraid to write about the darkness. It is not the bipolar darkness but the me in the raw. It is darker than the absence of light.  It leaves me trembling in my shoes and I run away from it. Instead I write about my fears of facing life with the absence of light.