For as long as I could remember, I’d experienced an
irrationally terrifying feeling of being watched by an unseen observer anytime
I was in a lighted house (or even a car) at night when it was dark outside
unless all windows were covered. I felt vulnerable. I felt like someone was
watching me with ill intent. I didn’t know why, and I couldn’t seem to talk myself
out of it. I would have a full
adrenaline rush if I suddenly noticed that it was completely dark outside and I
hadn’t shut the blinds. I can recall, on many occasions, realizing that I was
quaking, literally quaking with fear by the time I got all the blinds and
curtains closed. It was worst when I was alone, or at least when no other
adults were with me.
I always fought the fear, tried to talk myself out of it, and
told myself that I was stupid for feeling that way. Sometimes I could talk
myself into a little temporary relief. But the fear always returned, as strong
as ever.
And then I moved to a homestead in the wilderness. The windows
do not have curtains. There are absolutely no lights outside, so if lights are
on inside, anyone standing outside could definitely see in. There is nobody who
lives near enough that they would have any reason to be close enough outside the
house that they could see in, but if they did I would probably see their
headlamp or flashlight. Or the dog would bark. So it was clearer than ever that
my fear and feeling of being watched were completely irrational, but I still
could not talk myself out of it.
One night when I was home alone with my young daughter the
fear reached a fever pitch. All night long, my anxiety had been building, and
after I’d put her to bed and had to leave her room (the only room with
curtains on all the windows) my fear turned into actual terror. I couldn’t go
downstairs. I couldn’t even sit in the light and read. I got so scared that I turned
off all the lights, climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over my head
like a child.
As I lay under the covers trembling in fear, I remembered
the dream I’d had the night before. There was a frightening villain in the
dream, and as he was coming after me, presumably to attack me, I turned and embraced
him. I always do this to antagonists in dreams. I just turn on the love and
acceptance and the villain is a villain no more. Works every time. It isn’t
even a conscious thing; this is what I do when I am not lucid dreaming. It is
purely instinctual.
As I reflected on this, for some reason it occurred to me
that I should treat my fear the same way my subconscious treats dream-villains.
I should accept it.
Anyone who has been upstairs in that house knows that the
master bedroom is all windows on three sides. Even the interior wall has a huge
set of double French doors with only gauzy curtains on them.
I climbed out of the bed and walked over to the light switch.
I stood there for a moment, not quite sure of myself, and then I flipped the
switch. Ice cold fear washed over me. My stomach twisted, my chest and
shoulders tightened. My mouth went dry and my hands shook. But I stood there in
the light. I walked deliberately away from the light switch, away from the bed,
and stood at the corner of the room, near two sets of windows. And then I
stopped fighting it. I took a deep breath, and let go of all my internal
resistance to the fear. Tears ran down my face. Waves of hot and cold terror
washed over me. It was not pleasant. Then, as the initial terror began to ebb,
I began to feel curious about the fear. I stood there remembering all the other
times I’d felt this fear. I followed it back through my life, mentally tracing
how I’d felt in each of my homes. The luxurious townhome in a small town. The
rental duplex near the airport. The sprawling house in the suburbs. The starter
condo near the highway. The house I grew up in. Housesitting for my mom up in
the woods and for my aunt on the Mesa. The house on Foothill Road. The house I
grew up in again. My Dad’s house. The house on Turtle Creek, where I’d lived
with both my parents until they divorced. And then it hit me. That was where it
had all started.
I was probably around
2 years old. My Dad was the night manager at a local supermarket, so most
nights it was just me and my Mom. She had put me to bed and gone out to the
living room to watch TV, as she usually did. Sometime later, before she had
gone to bed, I was awoken by a terrifying nightmare. I was laying on my bed
looking out the window, when a giant skinny man with red sunburnt skin,
straw-like shaggy blonde hair and almost pupilless electric blue eyes came
striding towards my window and then reached in to grab me. I awoke with a
start. I heard the TV on in the living room, so I ran out to my Mom. She
comforted me for a while, and then she put me back to bed. I was okay for a
while, until I looked up at the window and imagined that I saw the giant man
peering in at me. My curtains were sheer and yellow, and there was a pretty
bright night light on in my room. Someone tall could definitely have seen me if
they were standing outside my window. I called out for my Mom, but this time, rather
than comforting me, she was angry with me for not being asleep. I hid under the
covers and cried, terrified, wishing my Daddy was there to protect me.
Now this was not one of those memories I’d thought of often
over the years. I had kind of remembered it, mostly with irritation at my mom
for prioritizing her TV watching over comforting me, but at this moment,
standing in the light in Theo’s house, I remembered it all with crystal
clarity. That was the first night I’d had that vulnerable feeling of being in a
lighted room while some malevolent person watched unseen from the outside. I
remembered so clearly being that tiny two year old, feeling that nobody was
going to protect me, feeling so vulnerable and afraid. I felt all my maternal
instincts well up inside me at the thought of tiny little me just wanting to
feel safe. I felt so much love and acceptance for that small fearful child of my
past, for the child that lived on in me. I completely accepted the fear, and
for the first time, I finally understood it.
I haven’t felt that fear of the unseen observer since that
night.
