Ah, the night. I have never been friends with it. Not once in my life have I ever said, "It's dark, and that's okay." I used to say my fear was of the dark, period. Now I've realized that my fear isn't darkness itself, but rather what the darkness might be hiding.
My father used to say, "There's nothing in the dark that's not in the daylight," as if that's supposed to comfort me. It doesn't I know that already. The problem is, there are horrible things in the daylight. I have seen some of them. I have had some of them happen to me. And while we're on the subject, no, I don't ever feel completely at ease during the day either. PTSD isn't at ease anywhere. I'm always a little more nervous and jumpy than I'd like, no matter what time it is. Sometimes I'm downright paranoid. But I'm one of those people who believes in being able to see what's coming at me so I can be prepared for the shit storm, if you will. If I can see it, I can fight it. That's why I'm not on good terms with the night: because it hides things from view. Because who knows what could happen when the lights go out and I start to fall asleep and I'm off guard, just not ready?
I've tried telling myself that my apartment is as close to impenetrable as it's going to get. All doors leading to the outside of the building lock automatically at 4 pm every day. I have a knob lock and a chain lock on the door to my unit, and I live on the top floor: the only way someone's getting in without me knowing about it is if Spiderman climbs up the side of the building and sneaks in through the window, and I really don't think Spiderman gives that much of a damn about me. And yet I can't shake the conviction that darkness is a cloaking device for every imaginable evil.
I've been trying a new coping skill to help me come to terms with nighttime: imagery. Lou-Dad likes to remind me that the night will hide me as well as it'll hide anything else, so I lie down and imagine myself as a giant panther, black as pitch, roaming the night as a shadow and owning the darkness, a predator who is in control and will not be startled by any scuttling in the leaves ... and it works until one of my neighbors shouts or breaks a dish, and then I'm back in my own body and seizing up with fear in the way only the cerebrally palsied can do: my entire body lifts up from the couch in one hugely exaggerated startle response, every joint straightening with a simultaneous snap, every muscle tensed to its limit and shaking. Needless to say, this imagery thing needs more work. But how? How do I dial down the adrenaline, the natural caution? I feel like I've tried everything to conquer this fear, from the aversion principle all the way down to magick: mounting a dozen tiny mirrors on the wall on either side of the doorway to the bedroom to prevent evil from entering.
I guess I am improving, bit by tiny bit: last night I slept with only the light under the stove hood on and the glow from the TV, and I listened to nature music instead of some show -- I usually need voices, not music. But then there will come a period of weeks or even months when every light in this tiny place has to be on before I can even entertain the idea of shutting my eyes, and I can't tell what causes the difference. Some subconscious thing, I guess. I can count the number of times in the past ten years that I've actually gone to sleep with no lights on and no TV going on one hand. I long for the ability to lie down in the darkness and feel safe, but it never comes. It's embarrassing, when I'm staying over somewhere: hoping the spare room has a TV so I can leave it on, or a small lamp somewhere, or even a streetlight shining through the window, because otherwise I'm faced with the choice of lying awake all night or owning up to being scared of the dark. Le sigh. I guess I just have to keep trying.
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