It Never Gets This Dark in Brooklyn

I never used to be afraid of the dark. I admit that I liked having my closet light on when I went to bed as a kid, but it had nothing to do with fear; it was because I loved staying up late and playing in my room without my parents knowing. If the closet light was left on, I could get out of bed and pull out a toy car or legos and sit in its – what’s the opposite of shadow? Since my mother or father would leave me tucked in with light creeping from under the door, there was no way to truly know I was awake and out of bed since there was no change in what they saw from outside.

I never had a strict bedtime. I had a time when I had to go to bed, but it wasn’t that I had to go to sleep. My mother always said: “I don’t care what you do, just go in your room, and I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.” In the years since then, when I come home for holidays and stay up late and my mother emerges from her room suffering from the apparently-genetic insomnia wanting to play a game of cards or Scrabble, I regurgitate that same line to her. (She probably wishes she had never used it on me…or that I were not smart enough to see the cyclical nature of our dilemmas.)

So I used to stay up. I’d bask in the light of my closet. I would tire myself out, since the rest of the day clearly did not tire me.

I am now an adult – by age and lifestyle, at least – and live alone without anyone to tell me to turn out the light or to go in my room. So I keep the light on until I get tired enough to sleep. Just like when I was seven.

But now, I’ve developed a fear of the dark. Not really all the time – just at night. That’s the hazard of living in New York City; there is never true darkness to deal with. The lights that reflect in from the street, from neighboring apartments, from the hallway of the building, those lights are a built-in excuse to distract from sleep, to distract from thoughts, to be able to watch shadowy figures dance and let imagination run wild. It doesn’t take a night light to play with a toy car – literally or proverbially. It doesn’t take action to distract oneself; the world does a good enough job for you.

So now, I’m afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of having no excuse. I’m afraid of having no distraction. I’m afraid of having my eyes wide open and still only seeing the back of my eyelids, the inside of my brain, my thoughts and memories and fears and anxieties.

I’m afraid of the implication that comes with total blackness at 2 in the morning, that of solitude and loneliness, and frankly, of being lost.

I love vacation, but after this one, I only fear my next. Bring on the onslaught. And the next time I have free time, I’ll spend it where the light still shines and being alone doesn’t mean ever being alone. At least then, I’ll have an excuse for insomnia.