Darkness falls across the land

The midnight hour is close at hand

I’ve written about this before, but I like to do my own thing. A few years ago I started camping alone, which was, at the time, exhilarating. I read a lot about women doing things by themselves, because there’s fear whenever females are alone doing anything at all. We’ve been taught to walk confidently while hiding our house key between two front fingers in case an eye-gouge is needed. We’ve been reminded to carry a whistle and to check in with a girlfriend when we get home. When camping solo, we’re told to set up two tents so that it appears there is more than one camper at our site. There are so many ways a woman alone can be fucked with.

Still, I camp alone, I vacation alone, I cabin alone. I like being alone. I like doing what I want, rising and going to bed when I feel like it — I live alone, after all. All this is normal to me, but still sometimes I’d like to get away from the internet, have an evening near a stream instead of a freeway. So I take a night and make it happen.

During a recent cabin rental, I realized something. I am actually excessively fearful, but I am not scared of human threats. What, then, terrifies me? Well…I am afraid of the dark. I mentioned in another newsletter somewhere that I dislike nighttime thunderstorms because of the lightning flashes. I also dislike darkness surrounding me as I make my way to the woodshed to replenish the firewood supply, impending blackness while I retrieve a forgotten item in the car, and especially nighttime forays to an outhouse. My heart leaps into my throat and I have to force my footsteps to stay normal. Sometimes I even emit a squeak of terror for no reason while flying back to the safety of the cabin. I hate flashlights illuminating tree limbs or far-off objects. What if eyes appear? What if a stick cracks? I most certainly never make it all the way to the outhouse in the dead of night. Nope, I’m watering the grass right next to the porch.¹

Cabin, looking comfortable and not at all frightening during daylight.

This is also the main reason I’ve given up camping solo for now. It’s not that I worry about other people. It’s that I am terrified to be alone, outside, in the dark, exactly what’s supposedly so great about camping. And if you have to relieve yourself and it’s black-dark-dead-of-night, well…that is the worst feeling. I just lie there physically uncomfortable for hours. It’s almost worse than being cold.

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Because I’m an ‘80s kid, I used lyrics from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” (the Vincent Price portion, anyway) as my title, although I could have chosen so many other songs. Plenty of people fear the dark and want to sing about it! And of course there’s a label for this fear: nyctophobia.

According to my doctor, aka WebMD, one treatment for nyctophobia (common in children, less so in adults) is this:

Using cognitive thinking to help change how your thoughts react to the phobia. For example, you could reassure yourself or your child that darkness is not harmful and that nothing lurks in the dark that wants to hurt you. 

Yes, sir, mountain lions lurk in the dark and bears want to hurt me. Also, Roger. See below. This “cognitive thinking” (isn’t that redundant?) approach doesn’t work for me, Dr. Web.

I made the hottest fire imaginable in this woodstove.

At this recent cabin, I had a companion. I was most certainly the only human present, but something was scratching loudly on the house. As soon as I detected the noise, I froze where I sat reading my book, and listened. Too big for a mouse. Too small for a bear on the roof. I went to the front door and put my ear near (not next to!²) the crack to learn if the creature lurked on the porch. No. I went to the bedroom — could I hear it there? No. Finally I determined the noise emanated from the ceiling of the living room, the corner where the stovepipe went upwards, carrying smoke from my excessively hot wood stove. I rapped the area with the broom handle, exactly as you’d do to your out-of-control upstairs neighbor in an apartment building, but the varmint didn’t even pause the scratching. I imagined a cross between the gollum and an aye-aye³ carving a groove in the wood with its extra-long finger, about to break through at any moment. I briefly considered throwing all my stuff back into my car and driving home, but that would require several lengthy trips from cabin to driveway in the dark and I couldn’t. So I made a joke out of it, named the critter Roger (Roger Raccoon? Roger Rat? certainly not Roger Squirrel!) and talked loudly at it.

Did I sleep that night? Not really.

Early morning mist hangs over the ridgetop.

When I finally opened my eyes, I was delighted to find I’d attained 4:48 am and could arise, knowing the dawn would soon arrive. I sat on a rocking chair I’d dragged onto the porch and sipped steaming coffee in the lessening dark. I pondered my fearful night, how I’ve never prevailed over this very childish terror of darkness. I thought how doing scary things has always played a role in my life.⁴ I routinely force myself into uncomfortable situations, provide myself challenges I know will be tough to meet, and generally don’t heed anxiety. And because of these habits, I’ve grown to enjoy public speaking, acted in dramatic productions, founded organizations, and mastered the drywall anchor. Why doesn’t walking outside at night in the woods become less frightening, the more I do it?

Something straightforward like staying in a cabin and shining a flashlight into the darkness in order to use the outhouse should be simple. It’s not.

Audio: nothing scary here, just 30 seconds from the porch with burbling stream and some critter waking up nearby.

1. Go ahead, say ew. I won’t disagree.

2. I hate horror movies but I’ve seen plenty. The last thing you want to do is put any face part directly next to a door jamb or peephole.

3. Please look these up if you don’t know what they look like. They’re both cute and creepy.

4. This is called exposure therapy, another suggestion from the old WebMD. I’ve been doing it since pre-InterwebsTime.