There was a time when I was not afraid. I wasn't afraid of being alone. I wasn't afraid of being outside. I wasn't afraid of being hurt. I wasn't afraid of the dark. Now I am. For over a year now, and it's becoming harder to handle.
When I was younger I snuck out of the house quite a bit, at night, and would just wander around by myself. At 11, 12, 13 years old I would be walking the streets of (suburban) New York in the middle of the night. I wasn't scared. I probably should have been, but I wasn't. I felt at peace. The chill, the crisp cold air, the velvet of the sky and the twinkling diamond stars............it was wonderful. When I was in college I did the same thing, with different results admittedly. I would wander the woods by myself at night, my favorite place being near the river that ran behind the student center. When my hubby was in basic training, there was a park I would visit at night, sitting on a bench or in the car watching the ducks glide peacefully on the shimmering surface of the pond.
That was the first period I suffered like this, as my mind chose the wonderful period of lonliness to try and haul to the surface of my memory things that were better left untouched. I stopped myself from remembering that time. I remembered enough to know that it was something so painful I shouldn't try to deal with it while alone. I nailed boards on top of the trapdoor that kept trying to open, and tried to drown it out with laughter and alcohol. I could feel it again several years later as we began preparing for a year apart, but again I pushed it away. The timing just never seemed right to let it out.
He was home on leave for a month. Just a few days before he was to go back, the door burst open. We had argued about some petty little thing and I was playing every card I had to get him to change his mind when something snapped. I collapsed on the floor, unable to control myself, in the grips of a panic attack and vivid memory. I saw..................I remembered................... I felt the sheer terror, I struggled to get loose, I experienced the excruciating, rending pain all over. I called out for him, needing his strength, needing to hear that it was all over and nothing like that would ever happen again. He thought I was throwing a tantrum and just walked away. I'm not sure what hurt worse.
When things calmed down a bit, and he realized that something was really wrong, I told him what I remembered. It was incomplete, but enough was there for me to know what happened. I slammed the door shut tight again, because I knew I couldn't handle it on my own. It didn't matter, though. That little bit was enough.
The days, weeks, months that followed were hell. I couldn't sleep, not at night anyway. I had to have the lights on, the doors locked, blinds closed (these were checked constantly when the sun was gone), and I couldn't go outside, not even just to take the garbage out, if it was dark out. The night that used to be my friend was now my enemy. I spent hours on the phone with family and friends, trying to reason out what had happened. Everyone had suggestions, ideas. My dad just told me I shouldn't trust my memory because it was probably just a bad dream I'd had. I knew it wasn't merely a dream, although I had nightmares of it often then. I went to a counselor to figure it out. I wanted to make myself remember everything so I could deal with it and get past it. She didn't think that was a good idea--I would remember on my own when I could handle remembering and not before. She was worried about how the memories would affect things when my hubby came home, and they did. At odd moments certain touches, motions, sounds would make me panic. And I realized that remembering everything could be very bad.
When I first told him, he was skeptical, and then enraged. He wanted to know who it was and where they were. The vehemence and determination scared me, and made me realize that remembering might do more harm than good. I still wanted to know, I just wasn't sure I would share it all. Two main possibilities, one much more likely than the other. I experimented..........I searched online for location, for info..................no reaction when found. A couple weeks ago I searched for the much less likely option, and the chills and nausea I felt just seeing the name....................
I could understand my fear of the dark, my fear of being outside, if that had been the situation, but it wasn't. It wasn't someone unknown, it wasn't outside, but it was dark. So dark where I tried to hide, and wasn't safe. Now I am ruled by unreasoning fear of the dark, as any darkness takes me back in time. So much so that tonight I was in tears as I drove back to the store after a delivery. I have been used to working during the day, so work hadn't been affected much, but tonight I worked late, and as I headed back to my car in the dark, I heard voices. Men's voices. I looked around, searching, but saw nothing. I rushed for the safety of my small car (I left the interior lights on) and began to tremble in relief as I slammed the lock down on the door. That was when I realized the voices were on the loudspeaker at the stadium about a mile away. I cried on my way back, that I should be so scared that the play by play of a local football game could terrify me. I came home needing comfort, reassurance.................I found cold porkchops waiting on the table.
Maybe tomorrow I can have the comfort I need, the arms around me to squeeze away the pain. Maybe tomorrow I won't be scared. Maybe I won't be scarred forever by one day when I was only 10. Maybe it didn't happen...........my reaction to that name, the name I thought innocent, says it did happen. I wonder if he remembers? Does he realize the pain? Has it ruined anything for him? Was it merely a stupid childhood mistake? Was it even possible? After all, he was only 10.
