What I'm seeing with out eyes, Part 3.

Chapter 4

Last night, the reddish-orange light was so bright, so intense, it filled everything. I couldn’t even tell when I’d closed my eyes—the usual dark reddish-brown I expect was nowhere to be found. It was just light, bold and burning, like a fire behind my eyelids.

By morning, the world inside me had settled. The brightness faded back into its usual heavy grey, with slow-floating yellow shapes drifting through the fog. And now, as I sit quietly, the darker reddish-brown edges have returned—faint but grounding—like the calm after a storm.

Right now, I see yellow floaters swimming lazily through that grey space, with a soft peach tint in the background. It’s quiet, gentle, almost dreamlike.

People ask me, “What are you up to?”
It’s a casual question. A way to check in.
And I answer casually too—“Oh, just chilling. Writing on my disability page. Sipping some coffee.”
It’s true, but it’s not the full truth.

What I don’t say is that while I sip that coffee, I’m watching yellow floaters drift across a grey world inside my mind. That earlier, I was trapped in a blinding reddish-orange light so intense I couldn’t even see the darkness behind my closed eyes.

I don’t say that I push it all to the back of my mind when I’m around people or on the phone. That I keep it to myself because it’s easier than trying to explain. Easier than seeing their faces twist in confusion, or hearing the long pause on the other end of the line.
So I just say I’m chilling.

And despite all of it, I’m still so grateful.

Grateful that I have the mobility to do the things that matter. I can load the dishwasher, unload it, take care of my elderly grandma the best I can, clean my room, carry my laundry downstairs, and put it away when it’s done.

I’m still able to socialize with people, to have real conversations. I can still listen to the birds singing outside my window, even if my hearing’s not perfect. It’s not great, but it’s enough—and I’m so thankful for that.

It’s the little things. Family. Friends. The simple ability to do what I can. I hold onto those moments tightly. They keep me grounded when everything else feels like it’s floating.

Just now, I helped my stepdad bring some garbage down.
It might sound like nothing, but to me, it meant everything. I felt proud of myself. Proud that I could help. Proud that I could move through my space, take action, and contribute.
Moments like that remind me that I’m still capable—still strong—still needed.
And that pride? I hold onto it. Because I’ve earned it.

I’m also still able to hear things that bring me joy—like the sound of rain falling, thunder rumbling in the distance, or cars whooshing by outside my window. I notice the birds each morning, singing their songs. I hear the soft cooing of doves. These sounds aren’t just background noise—they’re part of how I experience the world.

Even with my hearing loss, I can still catch these moments. Not perfectly, not always, but just enough. And for that, I’m forever grateful.

It’s just like I’ve been telling you — I’m totally blind, with no eyes. Yet, somehow, I still see colors and shapes inside my mind. This internal sight is vivid and real to me, even though no one else can see it. On top of that, I have high-frequency hearing loss, which makes it hard to hear important sounds like cars when I’m trying to cross the street. The background noises get loud and mixed up, and it’s confusing and scary.

This happens during the daytime too. When someone is talking, I can’t always tell if they’re actually saying “Kamala! Kamala!” or if it’s something else. I think that’s because of my hearing loss. But when someone really is calling me, I often don’t hear it—maybe because I’m focused on something else, or it’s loud, or the door is closed, or I have headphones on. That’s normal and makes sense.

But at night—that’s when all the craziness comes in. The quiet and darkness seem to bring out these confusing sounds, and it feels like my mind is playing tricks on me in a way that’s hard to explain. Sometimes, I think I hear someone knocking on my door when the whole house is asleep, or I hear voices talking when everything is completely quiet. How is that possible when my hearing is damaged? These sounds blur the line between what’s real and what’s inside my mind, making everyday life even more challenging.

Having a hearing loss makes talking on the phone hard for me too. When I’m on my iPhone, I have to have it laying right in front of my eye, and the volume has to be loud enough so I can hear it clearly. If the phone is even a little bit away from me, it still sounds like it’s far away—even if the volume is turned up. That makes phone conversations tiring and frustrating.

When I’ve tried to explain this to people, they often don’t understand. They say things like, “What’s wrong with you? Why would anyone be calling you? I’m just playing my game,” or, “People are sleeping.” It feels like they think I’m imagining things or making it up. So, I end up saying I’m “hearing things,” but really, I wish they could understand the confusing reality I live with every day.

Sometimes, these experiences make me wonder—am I dreaming even though I’m not fully asleep yet? Or maybe I’m asleep but don’t realize it, thinking I’m awake when I’m really somewhere in between?
It’s hard to tell, and that uncertainty adds another layer of confusion to my day-to-day life.

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This all came rushing back while I was just sitting there, distracted—doing things on Twitter, Facebook, checking messages, going about my day like anyone else. But then I turned off my phone, and suddenly… there it was again. That same old dark gray. The almost-blackness. The nothing.

That’s what most blind people see. Not pitch black, not stars or shapes—just this flat, dull gray that presses in from all sides. That’s what I see now. And it’s exactly what I saw when I first started going totally blind.

It didn’t happen all at once. Everything faded slowly, like the world was being drained away while I watched. The lights in my house turned a nasty brown instead of their usual bright white. The sun? Just a pale, yellowish blur—no rays, no warmth, no shape. Just a fading spot in a world going dark.

I saw all of this happen before my eyes—before my sight slipped away completely. And I felt everything: sadness, fear, confusion. I didn’t know what was coming, and I definitely didn’t feel ready for it.

Now, whenever the strange colors fade and that plain gray settles back in, it brings all those old feelings back. It’s frustrating. It’s heavy. Sometimes it even makes me want to scream. But it’s real. It’s mine.

And somehow, even in the middle of all this… I’m still here. I’m still making it through. That has to count for something.