I’ve always been afraid of the dark. It isn’t the monster
under the bed type of fear, or a dread of darkness itself, but it is a deep
awe, respect, and loathing for those nighttime hours which stretch on forever.
It is a dread of the type of loneliness which can only come when those you love
are so close, yet you must tread lightly outside their door lest you wake them.
They are close and unattainable and to wake them means to admit a grand
weakness, and to voice that you are not okay. Our brokenness is so much more palatable
to us when it goes unspoken.
Ever since I can remember, it was the fear of the nighttime
which kept me from falling asleep. I dread being awake during those hours so
much that I bring my own wakefulness. To sleep is to be free from fear, but to
be awake when you are supposed to be asleep-- this brings the most acute fear
of all. And in those hours right before dawn, the world is capable of shrinking
until the happy photographs on your walls mock you with what will
never be again because how could happiness exist in such a night?
It is a childish fear that I still nurse. It’s the fear that
brought the little girl timidly down the stairs to seek the comfort of a mother’s
arms in those hours before she also went to bed, or the paralyzing fear that
kept me shaking alone beneath the covers in the deepest and loneliest part of
night when I felt too old to knock on my parents’ bedroom door.
But what have I feared all of this time? Was it illness as I
thought for so many years? I no longer think so. The fear of illness was but a
symptom of a deeper fear which, even after the biggest part of my battle with
emetophobia is over, still courses through my body and seeps ruthlessly into
everything I do. It is the fear of being weak, unacceptable, an irritation, a
burden, an unwanted and disgusting human being, and an obstruction to another
person’s life. In other words, I didn’t fear being sick, I fear waking someone
in the middle of the night to something unpleasant that I am the cause of. I
fear interrupting a choir concert by passing out on the risers and causing a
scene. I fear being that one person on the tour bus who catches the stomach bug
first, and gives it to everyone else. I dread being the bridesmaid who passes
out while the happy couple attempts to read their vows. And above all, I fear others’
disgust, and the moment when they withdraw from you and tell you to stay away
because “you are sick and I don’t want to catch it.”
I make myself entirely responsible for the good days of
everyone around me. I assume, perhaps in arrogance, that I am capable of making
or breaking a moment. I hold myself accountable for everyone’s reactions, and
any negative reaction is my fault. It’s not about getting sick. If I were alone
in a house, I wouldn’t fear illness as I do, though I wouldn’t enjoy it either.
But it is my one desire in life to make everyone around me comfortable, and to
me, any discomfort that I cause another human being, even if it is involuntary
or unavoidable, is entirely unacceptable.
How freeing it would be to finally embrace that I am
responsible for my good day alone, and my reactions alone. It is my job as a
servant of Christ to love those around me, to react to their weaknesses in
compassion as Christ would, and to portray his grace, mercy, and love to a
world that is broken and suffers just as I do. It is not my responsibility to
control their reactions or to present them with a good day. It is the Lord who
makes the day, and he always makes it good. It is our choice to see it that
way.
I know there is something noble in my desire to create
peace, joy, and comfort everywhere I go. I believe this is a precious gift that
I have been given, and which I am to cultivate. But part of cultivating a gift
is learning which parts of this gift you have twisted, and letting them unravel
so that you can also live in the midst of God’s freedom and peace and not
become exhausted by the outpouring of a gift which robs you of your peace of
mind.
"On my bed I remember you, I think of you through the watches of the night. Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. My soul clings to you, your right hand upholds me." -Psalm 63:6-8
How is it possible that I didn't know you were afraid of the dark all those years? I remember that as soon as you were able to, you would climb out of your crib and come downstairs in the middle of the night...afraid, and needing comfort. It was something I expected, because I remembered being a little girl afraid in the night, and I also had comforted small, scared little sisters many times through the years. By the time you were about six years old, you seemed to have mostly grown out of it. If I had known you were still so afraid and suffering, you know that I would’ve done something to help you. I don’t remember any calls for help. I know that you would frequently come down and get in bed with me after your dad had left for work. That was just a nice, cozy early morning routine to me, and I certainly didn’t see you as a little girl afraid of the dark and afraid to sleep alone.
ReplyDeleteYour brother needed quite a bit of encouragement through the years to learn that the world didn’t revolve around him, and to see that other people have feelings too. He did learn those things, and has such a big heart now, and the ability to serve others. I’m sorry if I overdid it with you and made you overly conscious of how your actions affect other people. I’m so proud of you for your realization that you aren’t responsible for trying to make everyone around you have a good day. And especially for your faith that it is the Lord who makes the day, and he always makes it good. I’m so proud of your courage in fighting through this, and your willingness to learn to be more open with your fears. I love you, deeply and for always.