We sat in the office that smelled of leather and peppermint tea. Me across from him and the loose leaf notebook. Me eyes drifted to the intricate yet simple waterfall painting I had seen time and time again against the carrot colored walls as I waited for him to finish scribbling down notes from the nightmare I had just described.
I watched as the blue light outside the window reluctantly made way for night as he asked me his next question,
Are you afraid of the dark?
I remembered watching the sun set as a little girl and wishing it would stay a little longer, and that the baby pink and tangerine hues of the sky could keep me company.
I would think about the stories of woman in mirrors and monsters under our beds and I was afraid that I wasn’t alone in my room in the dark, that I had unwanted company.
I would lay in bed, sandwiched between the yellow sheets with the feeling of eyes that were never there on my back, or occasionally opened my eyes to check for a nonexistent figure by my side, and eventually, I settled for a Tinkerbell nightlight to keep the darkness at bay, finding security in being able to see the walls of my room.
Over the years my comfort in light grew. The nightlight turned into string lights and then lanterns as I got older and redecorated, and I found that I wasn’t afraid to go into our basement when I was home alone, as long as I turned on all the lights as I went.
In my yoga and meditation classes I started to learn about inner light and light energy. I found peace in the feeling of light within myself. I started to simply picture light and peace around me, and my state of mind improved.
This seemed like a positive thing, to find that kind of safety, not only in physical, but spiritual light, but I made that my comfort zone, and that’s not a place you can stay your whole life.
To me, the feeling of light was the feeling of kindness, of empathy, of a warm hug, or of a smile.
Unfortunately there are days in our lives where we do not give or receive these things, and those are the days we have to live without light, no matter how sunny it is outside or how many lanterns you turn on in your room.
These are the days that swallowed me whole for the past few years. Weeks on end of darkness; of not seeing, if anyone understood, or cared, or if it really mattered, or if I really mattered.
There was no Tinkerbell nightlight in this darkness, where you can fall and forget why you fell, and wonder when you will finally just hit the bottom.
No amount of meditation could relieve what I was feeling. I had felt it for so long I had forgotten when it started, and doubted it would stop.
I was back to being a little girl again, with a head full of fears, and this time, a heart heavy with sadness.
I would lay in bed, sandwiched between the blue sheets, with the realization that the world isn’t all light. I would open my eyes, and though I was 14 years old, and long beyond believing in monsters, I was afraid, not because I wasn’t alone in my room, but because I was.
I was all by myself, surrounded by, and full of the very thing I had tried to avoid my whole life; darkness, and there was no one to be afraid of but me.
So I started searching for light desperately. I waited for just one person to understand me, or show me love. I wanted it. I craved it. I bent over backwards to feel included, to get invited, and to get complimented. This was my new replacement for happiness, and suddenly social acceptance had turned into “light,” a fake, plastic replacement for the feeling I was looking for.
This lead to more socially based highs and lows than I could ever imagine, and slowly the happiness from occasionally being invited and included faded, and I was left with the anxiety and fear of missing out that plagued me as I watched snapchat stories from home, or realized that despite the fact that I had received compliments, and been included, and felt wanted, I never found the feeling I was missing.
Starting this school year, I was back again, with my old friend darkness, the only one who never left my side, when I started thinking about her a little bit differently.
I reflected on my safety in light. I remembered that I liked to see the walls of my room. That was my security.
In total darkness you can’t see anything, and I was so lost in fear of the darkness and love of the light that I missed the most important bit about myself.
I wasn’t scared of the dark, and I never felt safe in the light.
I was simply afraid of the unknown, as many of us are. This wasn’t about darkness, but rather my inability to see. The inability to see the walls of my room, or the perspectives of other people, or the depth of the ocean, or the span of outer space.
Walls and borders make us feel safe. We build them to separate and compartmentalize a world full of unknowns. We put ourselves in boxes of things familiar to us, and the longer we stay in them, the more afraid we are to leave. We forget to step out and see other people as humans, and other beliefs as valid, and other cultures as beautiful. We do not explore past our self-created borders, but instead buy into gossip and stereotypes.
We do not step into the dark, where you can’t see a thing. We are often afraid to feel our way around, dreading to touch the unexpected.
It is a common saying, “Being kept in the dark.”
It means you are uninformed, or out of the loop. Nobody wants to be kept in the dark, but think of the dark as the unknown. Step into it, explore it, learn about the world around us, and then stick around. Stay in the dark.
I am in the dark, as I have been for a long time.
I was in the dark as I sat on the couch in the office that smelled of leather and peppermint tea, and I answered,
I am not afraid of the dark. Not anymore.
fine heart thief 
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