I have been afraid of the dark for as long as I can remember. My brothers would tease me for it, push me into the dark closet and hold the door shut. Sometimes I would hit the door relentlessly with my fist, my fist that had not yet learned how to hold a pencil. Sometimes my eyes would well with tears, my eyes that didn’t know how to read yet. Sometimes my mouth would tremble and scream, a mouth that spewed improper vocabulary and sentences; And they found it funny, but my heart, a heart so sensitive and fragile, broke. The sibling teasing never stopped, but as I grew older and my fist, my eyes, my mouth, and my heart a little wiser, I could act brave and fib that I wasn’t afraid. I still ponder whether I was lying to them or myself.
As I got older the fear didn't leave. I would enjoy my days at school and extracurriculars, but as the hours of the day passed my anxiety of what was to come would heighten. The most dreaded moment for me was bedtime when my family would retire for the night and there I was stuck in my room, contemplating how bright was safe enough. I would lay down and get up to adjust the light, go back into my covers, close my eyes, and again I would get up to adjust the safety of the light, over and over again as if it was compulsive. It was a repetitive cycle that had such a grasp on me.
Many people consider the fears of children to be silly or not worth paying attention to because they too had their fears dismissed as the afflictions of the world corrupted their innocence. This is just the way of the world, disregarding these irrational childhood fears. My parents and many of us too have forgotten what it is to be terrified of something others consider silly. I would always fiddle with the switch of my bedroom light, as I turned it right, brightness would envelope the room and when I turned it left, it brought to light the fears I had not yet faced. As a result of my fear, I would constantly wake my parents throughout the night. In that moment, they would rub their eyes, take a deep breath, praying for a patience I didn't understand, and would ultimately ask me one thing; “What do you want me to do?” Everytime they asked me that question I never knew what to answer. In a perspective of reflection, I now think that deep within the swells of my soul I craved a protection and comfort I could not communicate, nor would it be provided as I had now become a “Big Kid”. So they put me back to bed and leave the light dim, and it was when the light was dim that I concluded my fear of the dark was the fear of being alone. That dim light didn't protect me from the horrors of the night like my Dad would, or comfort me and shield me from the moving shadows as my Step-Mom would. So there I was, trapped in a state of fear. A fear my family recognized as irrational, but still had such a control on me, the lights went out and the thumping of my heart in my ears would become overwhelmingly apparent.
The first time I slept with the light off was because I was grounded, Seven year old me had told a small lie I can’t even remember but I remember the consequence vividly. That night I wasn't allowed to sleep with the light on, with the door cracked, or with my small night light. I begged my step-mom not to shut the door, not to leave me alone in the pitch black of night- but she did. It was there I cried, certain that some monster would come for me. Eventually my pleas for help became gentle snores only a child could exude. When I woke up the next morning, unharmed, and untouched, it became clear that I was in a way my own monster, creating an atmosphere so vast and dark in my mind that it haunted me. I was my fear.
Even now as I sleep with the lights off, my heart still races and my adrenaline rushes as I navigate my way to my bed at night, still irrational and afraid of the monsters that could be there. When the shadows shift I still curl deeper into my covers, I close my eyes in a childish hope that if I don't see it, “it” won’t see me, and instead of praying for patience like my parents did, I pray for courage that is not my own. Albeit, I will be the first to admit that on nights where my sister isn't in her room next to mine and instead she's out growing into a pre-teen and enjoying sleepovers, and she's not there where we both have our doors open and I can hear her silence turn to snores, or her final “I love you sissy! Good night” I’ll sleep with a night light on. I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I don't have to be the brave big sister or maybe it is because my fear has always been of being alone. Maybe my fear has always been of being alone, because when I am alone, I am afraid.
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