Distraction is one of my favorite tools. When I have something to focus my mind on other than my discomfort, it’s easier to… well, if not “ignore” exactly, at least compartmentalize the pain. Dogs have to be walked, laundry needs to be done, little goals are obvious and right in front of my nose, so there’s always an easy next step in front of me to take at least a portion my mind off of how I’m feeling.
But at night, I’ve usually just got one goal: get some sleep.
You’d think it would be easy, since I’m often in a state of near-exhaustion, anyway. Pain – and the focus it takes to live my life even with the discomfort – means my mind is ready for quiet. But once the room goes dark, and I’ve turned off the various screens I’ve had in my face all day, I lose those distractions. The laundry is done. The dogs are (hopefully) asleep. And without other things to see, hear, taste, smell, the physical sensations start to take center stage again.
The pain gets bigger in the dark. The intensity increases, as the sensations focused in my arm (or my face) start to swell, waves that seem to wash through my entire body, the entire room. The pain I’ve neatly boxed up and (nearly) ignored throughout the day becomes my whole world once the rest of the world goes to sleep.
The future feels bleaker in the dark.
As I start to focus on the pain, the sensation increases. The fear grows. What had been minor annoyance at (still) being awake risks becoming something more dangerous, a vicious cycle of fear causing pain causing fear causing pain. It’s easier to get trapped in self-pity.
It’s easier to get annoyed when – even after following every expert’s advice on good sleep hygiene – the tips and tricks still aren’t enough. It’s easier to get frustrated, and angry, and to access every negative emotion I’ve ever experienced when I’m lying awake in the dark trying to breathe through the burning.
The solutions seem smaller in the dark.
Mindfulness feels more elusive when body scans get distracted by a specific part monopolizing the conversation. Deep breathing creates movement, and movement increases pain. Nearly anything else requires the energy to get out of bed, when it’s so much easier to just sit and stew.
Fear of the dark is common. Is fear in the dark just an extension of that?
As a child, I had to learn that the perceived intruder was just the cat. The monster in the corner was just clothes flung over a chair. The things my nighttime mind screams are threatening are, in fact, the very same things I can (nearly, sometimes) ignore during the day.
Things feel different in the dark, but that doesn’t mean they are. And at the end of the day, I can always remind myself that the end of the night always comes.