I am afraid of the not-dark.
I have long struggled with anxiety around a certain time of day. It took me many years to even realize it was happening, that there was a sort of pattern; I just thought I didn't like running errands in the late afternoon.
Which brings up another reason why it was hard to pin down: it's not just the late afternoon. It's not a time period as in "4 to 6 p.m.," but it's close. Maybe it's better if I try to describe it by season.
In the winter: it is late afternoonish, but the sun is still out. In fact, it glints off the snow in such a way that the reflections seems to hit you directly in the third eye, causing an instant (stabbing) headache. It's freezing outside, so you're wearing your winter gear, but you are also too hot: sweating and stuffy inside your layers, both too cold and too hot. The sun in too bright; the snow is too bright. And no matter which direction you're headed in traffic, it's always rush hour, and it all hits you directly in the face.
In the summer and fall: the sun is orange and of course it's hot. You're stuck in your car for hours, but it never seems to cool off, despite the A/C. This is the one that really gets me; I can't explain the terror, the throat-closing, dry-mouth-swallowing that accompanies the orange sky.
And you're probably saying to yourself, "That doesn't seem like anxiety. That sounds like headaches and road rage and your body trying to regulate its temperature." And you're not wrong. These are all physical manifestations associated with my twilight terror.
But it's not just when I'm out and about between 2 and 4 or 4 and 6 (depending on the season).
I could be home in my climate-controlled penthouse, and I can still feel the anxiety crawl up my throat like bile. I will close the curtains to get rid of those headache-inducing slants of sunlight, no matter the season, no matter if they're white or orange.
I will wander aimlessly across the three or four rooms, unsure of what to do with myself. It doesn't feel "safe" (whatever that means) to sit for too long or to try to start (or work on) a project. I can't focus; I won't let myself focus lest I stop paying attention to everything else.
For a while (several years or months), I thought I figured it out: I usually had to be at rehearsal in the evening. So those few hours in between work and other work (the theatre) were all I had to transition between. Time for driving, changing clothes, eating food, saying hi and bye to the spouse, then leaving again.
Right? That must be it.
And even though I like rehearsal (90% of the time; the experiences that make up the 10% are stories for another book), it is still hard to extract myself from home and leave out into the world again. But it makes sense that I would feel unsettled; can't fully relax when you have to get up and go again. Can't immerse yourself in another activity lest you lose track of time and end up late (my anxiety over being late is another entry entirely).
Except.
Except...it happens when there is no rehearsal. It happens when there is absolutely nothing on the calendar (like during a pandemic). I have to remind myself to breathe. I have to literally tell myself that's there's nowhere I have to be. But I still can't settle. I am still nervous inside my own skin.
And I'm pretty sure I've always disliked this time of day/late afternoon/early evening, long before the days of rehearsals or dinners or evening plans. Even as far back as 7 p.m. bedtimes and blankies and footie pajamas.
So the other day I watched In & Of Itself on Hulu. I do recommend watching it; although, I don't want to overhype it (like I feel was done to me). Many people say it's "indescribable." I think it's more accurate to say it's difficult to categorize. If there's a place where theatre, illusion, performance art, and therapy all intersect, In & Of Itself lives there.
The following is NOT a spoiler.
During his one-man show, Derek DelGaudio says there is a certain time of day, when the sun is at a certain point in the horizon, that used to be called "the time between dog and wolf." The phrase means, because of the direction of the sun, you can't tell the difference between a dog and a wolf (or a friend and an enemy). And that struck a deep chord within me. The "golden hour" as DelGaudio said photographers call it (although it's about two hours) sounded exactly like my twilight terror.
And I then wondered that perhaps "my" anxiety isn't "me" at all. Maybe there's not some triggering event in my past (that I've conveniently forgotten) to explain my daily dread.
Maybe, just maybe, it's something deeper, more primal, than that. The recognition I felt listening to DelGaudio describe the time between dog and wolf certainly felt primal, almost visceral. Maybe it's some kind of genetic memory related to the time between dog and wolf. Some remaining piece of collective memory passed down that says, "This time is dangerous; be careful. Be on your guard." Some small piece of genetic material that doesn't know it's the 21st century and is still trying to propel my body to safety by telling my brain to be on high alert until the sunlight changes.
And that's a fascinating idea. Not only is it fascinating, but it takes the burden off of me. It isn't "my" anxiety because it's not anxiety at all but a relic of human beings long ago. It was normal and meant to keep them safe. Mine is just working overtime by a couple of centuries. Or a few millennia.
