It's OK We Were Younger

I was nine-years-old the first time I went to our little house in the Poconos, and I remember almost nothing about it. I can’t remember how long the drive was, or which day we visited the water park. I can’t remember all the conversations I had that weekend with my older cousin except for one, but even that is very blurry.

I remember we were sent to bed, but neither one of us was tired. We were told the movie playing was inappropriate, and therefore coerced upstairs into our room with no nightlight. Once we were finally finished exchanging our frustrations over being children—and everyone else went to bed—we sank to sleep. One might claim that there is not much to say after that because nothing actually happened once our little house shut down, but I had a different experience with what exactly didn’t happen.

What I remember most is the darkness. The lights had been washed away when everyone went to sleep, leaving me soaked in the night. I just laid there in my bed with my nine-year-old thoughts—in the complete absence of light and sound. Soon enough even those thoughts faded to black. I was floating in that little house. I can’t say what it was about that night, but it was the first time I can remember feeling like nothing. And it was so intriguing, being disconnected from the world. Life had stood still, or at least it felt that way.

Initially the dark triggered my imagination, so I briefly lost contact with my thoughts and experienced a few nightmares. Once I relaxed was when the night stopped drowning me, and I floated on my own dreams. It was better than sleeping; I was in control. I was alive, but the mere responsibility of being alive, of being human, had washed away with the lights because I was nothing. It was so strange.

I remember times as a young girl when I would have to remind myself that I was real; I was alive. It was me who controlled my writing hand, and my legs, and my eyelids. It was so riveting every time I rediscovered myself. I can’t remember what triggered thoughts like these, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe it was my tendency to occupy myself with details, to complicate things and wonder if everything is really as simple as just being alive.

The night I was nothing in the dark—and a number of others to follow—I had surrendered everything but my control to dream. After a while, it became almost stressful, and I had to prove I was real again. Maybe when I was laying in the dark—being deafened by silence and blinded by darkness—I was nothing as I couldn’t prove otherwise. I couldn’t prove to myself that I wasn’t blind, as every time I closed my eyes I saw no difference—I saw nothing either way. I remember kicking my legs or waving my arms and wondering if it was too dark to see them; it was, but I felt the energy release, and I heard my arms and legs momentarily lose control. And I was something again, even without the lights.

Every so often one of those nights will come along when I let go of myself, just like the night in that little house. I’ll embrace it without thought and merely lay in the absence. Then my mind will begin to crawl back and reconnect with my body. Once they are tied back together, I’ll feel alive again, and I’ll be fascinated by my ability to come and go as I please—the imagination I’ve seemingly maintained since I was nine.