In one moment, I was in the bliss of slumber, in the next instant I was in the abyss of a waking nightmare, panic making me breathless, my heart racing, feeling acutely like I was going to drown in my own bed. I had thought that I was past these episodes, which had descended on me two years ago for the first time in my life, scaring me so badly that I was terrified of closing my eyes again, it only being the depths of exhaustion that would allow me to sleep.
This time, through long practice, I was able to eventually calm myself down, remind myself that the fear was a mirage, that I was safe, that I could breathe, that all was well. Or at least that was the narrative to which I chose to adhere, as a coping mechanism, one familiar to all of us at one time or another.
The day that preceded my night terror contained two events that very likely influenced my mental state. First, I learned that my daughter’s volleyball tournament was going to be held on the very campus at which I had frequently visited Michael, my lifelong best friend that met a tragic demise almost six years ago and whose death still haunted me. Second, my sweet little girl had been in a state, the stress of dealing with her schoolmate tormentors finally spilling over.
As I lay in bed, struggling to regain my psychological footing, images of Michael floated to the fore, a visitation that would have been welcome but for my distress, his visage a reminder that my grief was still trenchant. His appearance also triggered a mental spiral, as my brain revisited the memories of the many that I have lost, tragically and otherwise. A picture of Papa in his casket remained lodged, even as I tried to blink it away.
I have an incredible life – the most wonderful family, an incredible daughter, a thriving and rewarding legal practice, freedom to travel and ski and bike, the dopest friends, a supportive community, a truly wonderful existence. But to exist is to have create an operative fiction that the infinite methods of doom will not come to pass, to have to build a powerful emotional framework to insulate oneself against the malignance, the evil, the sheer random disasters that can befall one at any moment.
Waking each morning, we are largely unaware of the armor that we don, of the energy that we expend pretending that we are not mere seconds from destruction, from death, from the myriad misfortunes, dispositive and minor, that can plague each day. Carrying that weight, tapping into that reservoir of vitality is no small undertaking, but it is a critical survival mechanism, lest we all devolve into paranoid messes.
My horrid night imbued me with an extra level of sympathy for those suffering from crippling anxiety, as I again understood that worrying is not insane, may actually be the most sane way of looking at the world, but not particularly effective for navigating our quotidian endeavors. I have chosen blissful ignorance, a species of self-deceit, and it has allowed me to not only flourish in the face of life’s vicissitudes, but also to wholeheartedly embrace those happy moments, massive and miniscule, that make this extremely tenuous life worth living.
The recognitions and re-recognitions borne of my nocturnal gnashing may have been difficult to experience, but I was thankful nonetheless. I was indeed safe, ensconced in my bed, luckier than most, alive. I was empathetically linked to every person on the planet, appreciating that the human condition is fleeting, that our lives are brittle and unstable.
In light of this reality, we have to, every day, choose to see the good in ourselves and in each other, but also realize that perfection in this regard is impossible, that we will be overwhelmed, despondent, scared, and have an outward mood that reflects this inherent fragility and imperfection. It was a great reminder that grace for ourselves and for everyone is necessary, as we are all just hanging on to this rapidly rotating rock and hoping for the best.