I’m sitting here in the black, and I don’t understand it, because just this morning I could see colors.

Six months ago I quit my meds and up until this moment, I’d been doing so very well. I look outside and I don’t see an artificial neon technicolor prism, but I don’t see sludge and brambles, either. I just see colors as they’re meant to be seen — greens, browns, blues — plain and simple crayons, straight out of the box. I think this is what they call fine. What they call normal.

So how is it that somebody suddenly stuffed me in a cannon and shot me out, landed me here, a thick, black plume in my wake? Why can I only smell sulfur?

It started with a website I accidentally saw, an instant shiv to the kidney, and I was sobbing at my computer before I even knew I was bleeding. Minutes later everything took on this hue, this hazy, pewter hue, and I was a goner.

A good friend once told me I am such a sponge. And she’s right, I know it, I am. I’m a sponge for every person I meet, every book I read, every song I hear, every site I see, every mood I sense. I soak it all in, sop it all up, until the once distinguishable colors bleed into a purple puddle, dripping steadily from my feet.

And I’m sitting here and I’m thinking maybe I’m OK with the trade off. Sure, maybe I feel things a little too deeply, but at least I give, at least I mold, flex, bend, at least I don’t become brittle. At least I don’t break.

And I hear them outside now, the cavalry, coming in, and Gretta’s explaining that Zeus is the god of the sky and Pluto is the god of the underworld and Emma is repeating everything she says and they trip through the door all backpacks and light, and Dave glances sidelong at me, asks, “and who is Aphrodite?” his voice a wink… and it’s almost instantaneous, the way the light shifts, the way the air turns pink, and I know everything will be alright if I can just focus on these people, like the horizon when I’m seasick. Focus on their Crayola colors, on Emma’s Goldenrod curls, Gretta’s Burnt Sienna freckles; focus on their auras of fairydust and newness and everything vibrant, everything utterly true.

And I’m so sick of beating myself up for not always being able to do it alone, right myself. That sometimes I need those three people more than air, that sometimes I need these 26 letters more than water, that sometimes I need to hold perfectly still until I can almost believe the world has stopped itself, gently, kindly, in empathy, waiting for me to catch up. I only wish I knew how to be so gentle with myself. To see myself as they do, through their eyes, bright yellow, aglow.

I know that tomorrow’s a new day — my birthday, in fact — and this is what I’m gonna do.

I’m gonna find as many different colored candles as I can, and I’m gonna light them all.