Night Time

I have come to the realisation that I am afraid of the dark. Not in the sense that there’s a bogeyman under my bed, or that someone is going to jump out from a dark alley and stab me. In fact there are times when I love the dark, like when I’m staring up at the Milky Way in a place far away from city lights. But the night brings with it a very deep and subtle anxiety for me; something I’ve tried to ignore for years but seems to be getting stronger. When I travel I always try to arrive in a new place during the daylight hours, and when that isn’t possible I struggle with a fear that threatens to overtake me until I’ve found a well-lit place where I can sleep behind a locked door.

This condition has become a regular visitor of late. On the first day in my new apartment the power was off from 4-6 PM – a blessedly early time so that darkness only crept in during the last half hour or so. I had candles lit and was working on my laptop, hoping the batteries would hold out until the power came back on. I was nervous, afraid in this new place with no light. When the power came on I felt I had been rescued from the jaws of some gentle yet horrible beast. Once I turned on some lights I immediately felt at home, comfortable, happy to be here.

As I walk the streets of Kathmandu at night, I am frequently enveloped by darkness due to a power outage or just simple neglect of streetlights. At these times, knowing full well that there is no danger, my pace quickens and my heart thumps. When I reach my destination and step into the light, I feel relieved and stupid for my previous state of anxiety.

Lately I’ve been waking every morning in fairly high spirits looking forward to the day. I have been busy settling in and picking up things that I need. This has been fun and has filled me with a sense of purpose. I repeatedly run into people I know in the streets and am being invited to events within the expat community. I am meeting new people all the time, and life is generally good. And then the night falls and that fear grows in my belly like a tumour. The apartment symbolises a sense of permanence here; as if there’s no going home. What if I don’t find work? What if I do? What if I’m lonely? What if I run out of money? What if I can’t find a job that makes me happy? Am I going to be floating directionless for the rest of my life? The night is cruel.

I’m not sure where this fear comes from. I don’t remember any particularly bad experiences that may have instilled it in me. Perhaps it is the collective unconscious; a remainder from our distant past when the night represented considerable danger. When I lived in Val-des-Monts, people frequently asked me if I was afraid there. I could not think of a single threat in and around my home, other than perhaps had I tormented a mother bear, and I felt safer there than practically anywhere else in the world. I am now starting to understand it; these people had a fear of isolation that is likely similar to this fear I have of the dark. It is not rational, but its grip cannot be loosened.