It’s a year since I did a week-long dark retreat. I don’t actually know whether I’ve managed to process everything it brought yet. Even after everything I’d read before going into the dark and the solitude, I only had a hazy idea of how it would go. The reality was miles away from all the descriptions and all my expectations anyway.
Why did I decide to go into the dark?
I wanted to “have a word” with my illness and understand where it came from and what it was hiding. What was I worried about? I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat, so the darkness was a challenge in itself. And then, how would I fill all that time? Today those worries seem funny to me.
The biggest “horror” was meeting my inner demons, my fears and a deep inner pain. And I only peeked into some of the mysterious chambers. We have some kind of filter or valve inside us that won’t let us go beyond what we can bear. Even so, I was on the verge of breaking down. I could barely find the strength. And I had no idea that the worst was still to come…
How did it go?
The first three days were pretty much fine. My mind managed to “think them away”. But towards the end of the third day, feelings started pressing in and my body willingly amplified them with physical symptoms. Neither exercise nor meditation helped. I had never cried so many tears, never felt such dread of the future, such fear of death, the pain of loss and of expected loss, fear of dying, a sense of futility and nothingness.
But I have to give myself credit: it never crossed my mind to end the retreat early. Quite a pleasant discovery, because my habit had always been to run away.
What was coming back into the light like?
The worst experience of the whole retreat. I’d been looking forward to the end, thinking that with the first rays of sunshine I’d find solid ground under my feet again. But instead something came that knocked me to rock bottom: ” Dear God, what do I actually want in this world? What am I going to do with myself in it?” That was a blow!
I went into the dark to heal, and came out with the realisation that I don’t actually know why or how to live, and the insight that I’m more afraid of life than of death. It was so horrifying that on the way home I even imagined (I was just afraid to admit it) dying in a car accident. I just didn’t want anything to happen to my dad, who was driving me.
So how am I a year on?
It’s hard to say whether I’m still kidding myself about something, but even though the illness is still here, I’m able to live. The fear hasn’t gone away and I know it will always be here. Just like the feelings of futility, nothingness and regret. But their opposites are here too. I’m still afraid of death, of dying, of loss, of pain and of life, but I’m living and I’m enjoying it. I haven’t got rid of my inner limitations completely yet, but there are far fewer of them. Sometimes I feel that everything is pointless, that I do everything wrong, but something always comes along to show me it’s not that bad. Life still puts obstacles in my way, but I don’t fall apart over them so much any more; quite often I even have the courage and strength to face them. I saw myself and found that who I am doesn’t depend on education, gender or my current state of health, but on my attitude to myself and to life. I still have a lot of work to do here. And I want to do the work, and my greatest wish is to see it through.
To you both, Tomáš and Lenka, thank you for everything, and I wish you every success.
Daniela
