Nightwalking

...is not an illness

“…we were all convinced that we must talk and talk and write and publish as quickly as possible, and as much as possible, and that this was all necessary for the good of mankind. And thousands of us, contradicting and abusing one another, published and wrote with the aim of teaching others. Failing to notice that we knew nothing, that we did not know the answer to the most basic question of life—what is good and what is evil—we all spoke at the same time, never listening to one another. At times we indulged and praised each other in order to be indulged and praised in return, at other times we grew angry and shrieked at each other, just as if we were in a madhouse. …It is now clear to me that there was no difference between our behavior and that of people in a madhouse; but at the time I only dimly suspected this and, like all madmen, I thought everyone was mad except myself.”

— Leo Tolstoy, “A Confession” (1879)

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It’s not easy to write about Nightwalking because it’s not very verbal.

It comes from a restless dark place, where emotions are roiling away and supposedly stone-dead yet still-beating hearts are thumping under floorboards—you know, the kind you read about in an Edgar Allan Poe story.

And like said Poe story, it will “tell you a thing or two.”

Oh, yeah.

It’s an internal struggle, one I’m sure everyone knows.

There is movement inside the despair. Wait for it. It will ascend the stairs—SLOWLY. (Photo by Completely in the Dark/Michael Maupin.)

I haven’t given up the fight, but I did take a dive over the New Year holiday to recuperate from the ’flu and general post-holiday blues. While I was ill it occurred to me that I might’ve been Nightwalking, too.

But let me make this clear: Nightwalking is not an illness.

It’s not the most pleasant state, chiefly because it’s so cheerless. Fortunately I’m now feeling healthier and gaining back energy lost over the past two weeks (I’ve tested negative for Covid, so all clear there). I realized it was important to take care of myself, and I did just that. But I was starting to feel guilty I wasn’t writing regularly, that is until I stumbled across the Tolstoy (see the above quote, discovered while recovering). What surprised me about that rant from the old Russian count was its currency in a 21st century Internet culture. Feel free to re-read it, thinking along the lines of “isolating” social media and online hate groups:

“Failing to notice that we knew nothing, that we did not know the answer to the most basic question of life—what is good and what is evil—we all spoke at the same time, never listening to one another.”

But what if rather than instantly reacting to other people (either digitally or IRL) we did the same within our own minds? What if we slammed on the psychic brakes and questioned our feelings and emotions and then sifted them through a new sieve of thought?

These seem like big asks, but in a nutshell that’s what I call Nightwalking. It’s the place where time slows down and things are considered more pensively. But it’s also a dangerous headspace to be in because it’s so contracted and psychically painful. I know this. I’ve experienced it for a long time. But if you stop in the middle of it—even if it’s zombie-like walking into a stumble and crash—that pause can make a difference.

And it seems there’s a value in that.

If you don’t have that sort of awareness in your life, you may be driving yourself into the ground with anxiety, over-reactions and over-exertion. Because I’m older now, I’ve slowed down and refuse to get myself into a froth over nothing. I’ve also noticed that when I’m feeling more in the line of Daytalking, like now, there’s usually a song or two dancing around in my head. Add to that an inclination toward playfulness and anticipation and I’m veering away from Nightwalking and getting closer to “my normal” Daytalking and Stargazing modes of being.

Places I like to be.

This is a difficult thing to write about because my normal is certainly not most people’s normal. Most people seem to have healthy self-regulating doses of serotonin. Because I suffer from dysthymia (a sort of low-grade, lingering depression), my reactions to things are more “flat.” That’s not to say I don’t enjoy things. I could be perfectly happy, even joyful. It’s just that my outer affect doesn’t accurately reflect my inner mood; it’s the way it’s baked in for me.

Am I satisfied with that?

Hell no. Would you be?

So, I’ve been wondering if there’s some form of therapy available that, over time and steady application, might steer things toward more positive outcomes. Variations on CBT (cognitive behavior therapy) seem like they might be helpful, but I need to do more exploring. Also I’ve been wondering if VR therapy of some sort might help, too. (I’m having trouble working out the details on that, so further research is probably required.)

Nightwalking isn’t the best I can be. I get that. But it’s an acknowledged aspect of my personality and I’m getting toward … something. Something more helpful. (I’m hoping we can work together on this over next Friday’s “In the Sandbox” prompt on Nightwalking.)

Recognizing the value behind Nightwalking, and not demonizing it into an illness or condition, might be the first step toward molding a personal “liability” into an “asset.” I’m looking forward to finding out.

I hope you are too.