I am afraid of the dark.

Not in a simple way. Not in a way that feels childish or easy to explain. I am afraid of what happens to me when the world gets quiet and there is nothing left between me and myself.

During the day, I can still participate. I can clean something. Take the medicine. Drink the water. Eat the food. Answer a message. Move from one task to another and pretend, at least a little, that life is still something I can manage.

At night, that all falls apart.

At night, it is just me and the silence. Me and my thoughts. Me and my body. Me and the things I have not outrun.

And sleep is one thing you cannot control.

That is what gets me.

You can control so many other things. You can try to be decent. You can stop drinking. You can do the healthy thing. You can make the room calm. You can do everything you know to do to take care of yourself.

But sleep does not come because you were responsible. It does not come because you earned it. It does not come because you are desperate enough. It does not come because you beg for relief.

It comes when it comes.

And when it comes, you have to let go.

That is what feels dangerous. The letting go. The loss of command. The moment where I cannot fully protect myself from my own mind, my own memories, my own fear.

Because the dark does not feel empty to me. It feels occupied.

By grief. By loneliness. By fear. By the feeling of being abandoned. By the shape of people who are not here anymore. By the life I thought I was living. By the love I still carry that has nowhere to go.

And underneath all of that is this quiet dread:

What happens when sleep takes me somewhere I do not want to go?

What happens when the nightmares come and I have to feel everything again with nowhere to hide?

What happens when I wake up more afraid, more alone, and less sure of myself than I was before I closed my eyes?

That is what I do not think people understand.

Sleep is supposed to be comfort. For me, sometimes it feels like exposure. Like handing myself over to a night I do not trust.

So I stay awake longer than I should. Not because I am trying to be difficult. Not because I want to suffer. But because some part of me still believes that if I stay conscious, I stay safer.

I know that part of me is exhausted. I know it is trying too hard. I know it cannot guard me forever.

But I also know it is trying to love me the only way it knows how.

That matters.

Because I am not weak for being afraid of the dark. I am afraid because too much has happened. Because too much of my pain wakes up at night. Because grief gets louder when the house gets still. Because loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. Because abandonment feels closest when there is no one beside me and nowhere left to direct my attention.

So this is the truth.

I am afraid of the dark because it strips away the illusion that I am in control. I am afraid of the dark because sleep asks me to surrender, and surrender does not feel safe to me. I am afraid of the dark because night makes me feel the full weight of being alone.

And still, I am here.

Still trying. Still sober. Still taking the medicine. Still taking care of myself. Still trying to be a good man. Still trying not to make things worse. Still trying to survive this without losing whatever is still good and steady in me.

Maybe that is enough for tonight.

Maybe I do not need to be brave in some shining, dramatic way. Maybe bravery is smaller than that.

Maybe bravery is just telling the truth. Maybe bravery is lying down afraid and not hating myself for it. Maybe bravery is making it through one more night without abandoning myself.

That is all I want tonight.

Not peace. Not mastery. Not some perfect sleep.

Just to stay with myself in the dark. And make it to morning.