Everyone I know has, at some point, had to deal with the monster under the bed.
Some do it with grace. Others falter.
I’ve always been clumsy.
I can vividly recall many terrified nights from my childhood, when I would lie rigidly in my bed, utterly paralyzed by fear. Afraid to make the slightest movement, to breathe, to call out for my parents…lest I be detected by IT. The pounding of my heart would be so loud in my ears, and my breathing so ragged, that I could swear the entire house could hear me. And yet…no one came to help.
The moment would stretch out like taffy.
At some point, my raw fear would ever so subtly decline, freeing me up to end the stalemate in one of several ways.
Some nights, I would call out for help. On other nights, I would launch myself out of bed and across the room to flip on the light-switch, banishing the darkness with welcome illumination.
However, in retrospect, the most helpful nights were those nights I didn’t look. On those nights, my stubborn streak would embolden me to hunker down and not look. I would sit in bed with fear, doubt, uncertainty, and resolve.
“Bring it on, monster.”
And you know what? The monster never came.
My monster doesn’t bother me anymore. Does yours?