fear of the unseen observer

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.

2015-10-02

me in 1985