Not Alone in the Dark

I had regular nightmares as a young girl that I would awaken from, in the middle of the night, terrified. Before I turned four, I learned it was better not to call out for my parents and risk irritating them. I didn't want them to get angry or frustrated with me. I'm not sure quite when I gave up on the prospect of their care, but it was before we moved to New Delhi and I turned four. I wanted to be good and loved. So, I learned, as best I could in the darkness of those nights, to self-soothe.

A soon-to-be four-year-old is a small and pitiable creature with poor capacity to self-soothe. I would clutch the one stuffed animal allowed to travel with us to our new home, in a new country, and will myself not to be afraid of the dark and to return to sleep. I spent many long nights before dawn, my little eyes staring into the dark, exhausted but too terrified to sleep.

Sometimes I felt so nauseous from my terror that I'd pad barefoot to the bathroom and curl into a ball on the bare cement floor to let the coolness of the ground seep into my body. I got used to holding my hair back with one hand as I quietly threw up in the toilet, trying not to wake my sleeping little sister and get in trouble. Sometimes I would sleep there, on the ground, my little body shivering on the cold concrete until first light stirred me, and I stumbled back to bed.

Something happens when we stop calling out for help — the collapse of no longer expecting care or kindness. We give up on ourselves, curling inwards, self-protecting our tender hearts with the frame of our bodies – abject, self-pitying, and alone.

It was many decades into my trauma healing journey that I gave up my fear in the dark — the voiceless flashbacks of childhood terror that awakening in the middle of the night would inevitably summon. No amount of reasoning or reassuring, from my adult self, would put a dent in the fear that clutched my stomach and my throat.  

On the advice of therapists, I recounted my dreams and rationalized the fear as early childhood trauma and nervous system overwhelm. A well-intentioned Catholic priest even recommended I sprinkle holy water on my bed. Finally, I learned to accept this nighttime terror as part of my life, the way one might begrudgingly accept a long scar, rigid and painful to touch, but bearable.

It was only when I trained in Polyvagal Theory and Internal Family Systems (IFS) as part of my journey as a trauma specialist that I finally understood what needed to be done.

I began to see my terror as a wounded younger part of me who resolved never to ask for help, despairing of comfort and bracing for punishment if she ever showed her feelings.

During daytime hours, my protective system kept me occupied with achievement, but at night when my defenses were lowered, this younger part of me would flood my nervous system with her unrestrained terror. And I would awaken, feeling those same familiar feelings of terror and aloneness — like the darkness around me threatened to swallow me whole.

Again and again, this younger part’s fear would overwhelm me in the dark and I would be almost-four again. 

The first thing that healing this aspect of myself required was to not let the terrified part of me take over and overwhelm me with her fear — an emotional flashback that happened for decades. I needed to stay separate from this younger me who screamed silently, alone in the dark. My adult consciousness needed to remain distinct enough that I could turn towards her instead of becoming her.

Sitting awake with this younger part of me in the middle of the night, I said to her simply, "I'm here. I’m here. I'm right here with you.” And I did this a hundred, maybe a thousand, times each time she showed up, terrified and alone.

At first, I felt angry with this younger part of me who demanded such ongoing emotional care. I felt impatient at her disturbance and frustrated she wasn't soothed by my brusque attempts to quiet her. Her terror made me feel uncomfortable, like I should somehow know what to do. I copied my parents' impatient responses and continued to inflict them on her, making her feel even more alone and inconsolable.

Recognizing I was repeating my parents’ behavior took the breath out of me. 

It felt tragic to realize I copied the neglect I experienced in childhood, to see that was how I responded to myself in the vulnerability of my needs.

I was unconsciously treating the most wounded parts of me the same way I'd been treated, partly because I didn’t realize and partly because I didn’t know another way.

When I saw this, I began to will myself to do the opposite behavior. Where there was dismissal, I brought attention. Where there was frustration, I brought care.

In the beginning, I went through the motions and nothing much changed. Again and again, I turned towards my terrified part and tried my best to offer her care. "There, there," I said to her inside, as I pictured her tear-blotched face in my mind’s eye, "I'm right here."

Part of me wanted to tell her to stop crying, to fix her and her big feelings, so that I wouldn’t have to feel the discomfort of failing her. Instead, I met her where she was, as she was, with as much understanding as I could. 

Night after night, I would connect with her like this. As I made these best efforts at patience, I became more patient. As I breathed slowly and tried to stay calm, I became more calm. It started working.

Slowly, the younger part of me began to trust that I would meet her with care. She started to orient towards me — and not the dark — calling out for comfort she trusted me to provide. I sometimes felt like a new mother, bewildered with my hands full, making it up as I went along. But it worked. 

Slowly, I began to understand this younger part and her well-founded fears. She began to relax and release herself to my care. Before long, she was willing to let me care for her, which I continue to do.

There is something else I noticed, going into the dark to find my younger self, afraid and alone.

What terrified her wasn't the presence of a monster or a malevolent force. What scared her was the emptiness and aloneness she felt, inside. She projected her abandonment onto the darkness. Her fear took on a life of its own, bigger and more powerful in the dark.

I noticed something else.

As I tended to her and helped her set down her terror, the dark took on a different quality — more like the warmth of an enveloping hug, awake and alive. When I peered into the dark, the dark looked back, answering my whispers with the reassurance of an old friend.

The dark wasn't scaring my little self. It was holding her, keeping her safe, waiting for me to come and get her, so I could bring her home.

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Elie Losleben supports individuals and couples internationally through trauma resolution and embodied healing. She brings extensive training in somatic approaches and a deep understanding of how the nervous system shapes our capacity for connection. To learn more about working together, you're welcome to reach out.