This was previously published in our October 2024 issue.
When I turn 18 at the beginning of the new year, I never want to go back to being a scaredy cat. It’s the second wish on my list — getting rid of a characteristic that hindered me when I was little.
I remember all the midnights paralyzed by fear as I lay staring out from my bed, constantly restless, waiting from dusk to dawn. Waiting and wishing for daylight to break and for sunlight to fill my room, saving me from my fears.
I don’t know what fostered my fear and unfortunate belief in the occult and superstitions, making nighttime unbearable. It could’ve been the movies I watched through the slits of my fingers as I covered my eyes and muffled my screams — my family making it a tradition to watch the scariest ones they could find. Or maybe it was the stories people liked to tell for the sole purpose of seeing my face torn by horror.
Whatever it was, I was convinced for years that something was out to get me. My paranoia caused me to believe that someone was watching from every open window. I pictured zombies limping up the stairs for a late-night snack, and I was almost certain that my dolls were possessed and waiting to strike.
My nightmares were endless, and in des perate attempts to save me from whatever I believed was lurking around, I took every possible opportunity to make wishes — throwing coins into fountains, waiting for the clock to hit 11:11, never shortening my luck by going under a ladder, shattering a mirror, or stepping on any cracks.
Being this afraid of the dark caused long periods of sleep deprivation and annoyance. In elementary and early middle school I couldn’t stay awake during class, and my family would have to deal with all the lights in my room being lit the entirety of the night. My family had to deal with the droning sound of my TV as it played Scooby-Doo in the early morning.
In spite of this, I absolutely loved Halloween and the spookiness that came with it, minus the sinister aura I felt in the air. I was always so excited to dress up and go out into the night to collect as much candy as my bag would fit — my brother and I running through the streets, racing in a meaningless competition of who could ring the next doorbell first. I just wished that I could return home without tears running down my face.
Now that I’m almost 18, I’ve noticed that the years of living in a constant state of terror have left me utterly desensitized to subjects revolving around horror. I think that the night is beautiful now rather than a battle that must be conquered. It’s peaceful, and it’s quiet.
I’ve noticed that my fears are different now. Like my schoolwork, my upcoming drivers test, and my impending future.
I don’t want to be a scaredy cat anymore and no matter what I’m afraid of, I want the courage to face those things. Making wishes is a limitless comfort of mine; even though it’s based on myths, it leaves me feeling hopeful about my goals.
I know now that when I get a chill down my spine while I’m walking in the dark, the soft winds blowing in the leaves aren’t signs of ghostly voices. I’ll take them as a sign that when I’m 18, I’ll be able to overcome my fears.
