I admit it. I’m afraid of the dark. I still think there might be monsters in my closet, and if the light is already turned off, I have to get a running start to jump onto my bed so the ankle grabber doesn’t get me.
I purposely avoid horror movies and scary things because I have no desire to not be able to sleep for a week. My husband sleeping in the bed beside me makes me feel a little better. I tell myself he scares the monsters away with his… breathing? And the fact he sleeps so deeply he wouldn’t notice if a monster dragged me off in the night? I don’t care, it’s less scary with him there. Everyone knows the rules of monsters. They can only get you if you’re alone in the dark, and you don’t have the magic covers pulled over your head. Also, they have to come through some kind of portal, like an open closet door. Since we moved, we have a walk-in closet and a bathroom attached to our bedroom. You’d think a girl would be happy about these things… but this girl only notices there is no door on our walk-in closet (a permanently open portal!) and the bathroom is one more open door to worry and wonder about… do monsters come through open bathroom door portals? I don’t remember this being addressed when I was a child, and I’ve never wanted to pose the question to any of my adult peers. Maybe I’ll ask someone at my husband’s business dinner tomorrow night. I’m sure he would appreciate me keeping the conversation going.
But come on! I can’t be the only perfectly logical, intelligent adult woman who loses all ability to think rationally in the dark! There’s gotta be someone somewhere. Someone? Anyone?
Managing my imagination when the lights go out is imperative, which is why my “avoid scary things” policy really helps me. A couple weeks ago, a news story about a man– who just got out of prison — murdering and eating the face and eyes of his date and then being tasered to death by a police officer popped up on my Facebook news feed. My “avoid scary things” policy dictates that I would not click on such a thing, but I just couldn’t believe an actual thing like that could happen. It had to be fake. It wasn’t. The rest of my family was already asleep, as it was 11pm on a weekday, and I had only planned to scroll my news feed before heading to bed myself. Instead of going to bed, I turned on the TV and watched Vampire Diaries because my mind was so disturbed after reading about a murderous cannibal. The logic that led me to watch a TV show about vampires to get my mind off a cannibal might be questionable, but I’m attributing it to a major policy malfunction. Didn’t sleep much that night. Refused to let go of my husband’s arm when he attempted to climb out of bed and get dressed for work in the morning. My policy failed. I’m ashamed. I may need a 12 step program.
But I quickly got back on the bandwagon traveling the road to being able to sleep at night.
Then, a few nights ago, I saw something on Facebook about Charles Manson getting married. What?! That sounded absolutely ridiculous. How could he get married? And who would marry him? He’s in jail. I had to investigate. My investigation turned up a plethora of information, including descriptions of the Charles Manson murders. Nighty night, don’t let the Charles Manson bugs bite.
I dreamed I was a police officer on the trail of a terrible murderer. (My brain must really not function during sleep — a police officer is the last thing my scaredy cat self should be employed as.) This murderer had killed 7 people, and he and his girlfriend were escaping and planning to dump the bodies. I caught up to them at a volcano where they were throwing the bodies into a river of lava. There was one body left, and I needed to stop them so I could get the body and prove they committed the murders. I pulled out my gun and told them not to move. Just then, the murderer’s two body guards (because every murderer has body guards?) appeared on both sides of me and pointed their shotguns at me. The murderer pulled his gun out of his pocket and fired, hitting me in the hand. Holy crap that hurt! I turned and ran. I didn’t want to be shot and dumped into a volcano and I was ready to quit my job as a police officer. My husband’s alarm was going off. Where was he, anyway? Did he even know I was being shot at?
“Don’t go to work!” I yelled and burrowed underneath his arm. “If you do, I’m going to fall back asleep and be shot and thrown in a volcano!” My husband — like the big comforting teddy bear he is — hugged me while I relayed my dream to him. “And by the way, I was reading about Charles Manson before I went to bed last night,” I mumbled into his chest.
“That will do it,” he sighed, and then laughed at my choice of bedtime reading material.
I didn’t blame him for laughing. I kind of do these things to myself. Besides, he does sleep next to me every night knowing full well that monsters might drag me into the closet while he slumbers. Sometimes he even wakes me up before the monsters drag me off. My knight in shining armor — err… angry bird pajamas — going to battle with my nightmares. True love.
Tonight I’m reading about bunnies and rainbows before I go to sleep.