The Eclipse Within Me
There was a time when my life was drenched in light.
Not the harsh, blinding kind of light that burns, but a soft, silvery glow — like the moon in its fullness, unscarred and pure. I remember those early years as something too perfect, almost unreal. My laughter came easily, my steps were light, and I thought the world was vast and merciful. Childhood felt like a constant dawn, everything painted in innocence, trust, and the quiet belief that tomorrow would always be kind.
But just as the moon cannot always stay whole, just as night cannot exist without shadows, the eclipse eventually came for me.
It began subtly, like a shadow slowly brushing across the surface of my world. At first, it was just cracks in the foundation — voices raised at home, love splintering into anger, silence where warmth used to be. The perfect circle of my family was breaking, and I was too young to understand why. They tell you family is where love is unconditional, but mine became a battlefield, and I was caught in the crossfire.
Then came the moment when my light was stolen in a way I can never forget.
My virginity was ripped from me when I was far too young to understand what was happening, far too young to even name it. That night, the shadow swallowed me whole. My body felt foreign, my soul broken. I didn’t bleed just physically — I bled silently into years of shame, guilt, and questions that gnawed at me like invisible teeth: Why me? Did I deserve it? Was I dirty now?
Night after night, the nightmares came. They weren’t just dreams; they were relapses, flashbacks dressed as sleep. I would wake with my chest burning, my sheets damp with sweat, my throat raw from silent screams. I tried to bury it, but trauma is like gravity — it pulls you down even when you’re fighting to rise.
Depression crept in slowly, then all at once. The clinical terms sound so neat — Major Depressive Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation — but living them was messy, terrifying, endless. I stopped recognizing myself in the mirror. My eyes looked like eclipsed moons, hollowed out, ringed in shadows. I carried suicidal thoughts like hidden weapons, blades I was always close to using on myself. More than once, I stood at the edge of ending everything, craving the silence of death more than the noise of living. I remember holding pills in my hand, or staring at the rope, or counting the seconds on a bridge. I thought ending it would free me, the way the moon must sometimes want to escape its endless orbit.
But I survived.
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Each time, something — maybe fate, maybe stubbornness, maybe a sliver of unseen hope — pulled me back. The cycle repeated, just like the lunar eclipse: light, shadow, darkness, and then the trembling return of light again.
Years passed. My scars didn’t vanish, but they became constellations across my skin and soul, reminders of battles fought in silence. Slowly, painfully, the shadow receded. I began to rebuild — piece by fragile piece. My family healed in its own imperfect way, learning to patch over the brokenness. I found spaces of love where I thought only hatred lived. And one day, I realized I was smiling — not the forced smile I used to wear as a mask, but a real one, unshaken by nightmares.
Now, I stand in a rare peace. My life is calm, my family is closer, and I have learned to breathe without the weight of constant fear. But I know, deep down, this peace is like the moon’s light: temporary, fleeting. Just as the lunar eclipse always returns, I know my shadows still orbit me, waiting. My depression may slumber, but it is not dead. My trauma may be silent, but it is not gone.
That’s what life is for me — an endless cycle, just like the moon.
First, the brightness — too perfect, almost divine.
Then, the eclipse — the shadows of abuse, the suffocating weight of trauma, the black sky of suicidal nights.
And finally, the light’s return — a fragile peace, a reminder that even in darkness, the moon is never gone, only hidden.
I am that moon.
Scarred, eclipsed, reborn.
And though I fear the next shadow, I have also learned something vital: even at the darkest point of an eclipse, the moon is still there. Hidden, yes. Bruised, yes. But never destroyed.
So am I.
