Bringing the Bogeyman into the Light

While recovering from a recent surgery that didn't go as expected, a memory returned—one that came from a deep place of fear and aloneness that surfaced in the darkness of my hospital room, where I began to write. 

When I was a child, I used to lie in bed alone in the dark. I would be scared and yell out for help, but no one could hear me. I would imagine that I would be taken down to my basement by a shadowy figure—a bogeyman—who lived in the dark closet of my room. 

Sometimes, I would wake up in the basement, where I was alone and didn't know how I got there. I'd go back up to my room and hide my head under the lacy white cover spread across my bed.

Finally, my mom would come into the room. She would tell me that I had a bad dream and that many kids have them at my age. She would tuck me in and assure me that I was all right and no one would take me away; the bogeyman was just the coat hanging on my closet door. 

It's funny how I still think about this dream. I call it my fearful part. It goes back as far as I can remember. Maybe earlier. I think it comes from my mom. She would tell me, "We have a special connection." I felt her fear, and I think she felt mine as well. I felt like it was a special power, but it was also a curse. 

It's the dark hole of trauma where I can feel invisible and alone. It's the fear that this will be my existence forever. 

Now I get it! It's related to my mom's illness and my own as a child. I had asthma and severe allergies, and would sometimes have a hard time catching my breath, and feel like I was dying. My mom would also have times when she would feel the same way and look to me for comfort, when no one would believe her or know what to do. 

My fear was of dying and of my mom dying. I see that kid now—pretty young, maybe 3 or 4—and scoop him up. I tell him that the fear he held onto as a child felt real because no one told him what was happening. I think about how confusing it must have been for him, the uncertainty around him, afraid that saying the wrong thing could upset his mom or even make her die.

I just have to run the movie again and watch it with the child. Occasionally, I have to slow it down and make some edits to clarify the truth and resolve the mystery. I tell him what my sweet granddaughter, Annie, would say when she was only 3 years old: "Life is a mystery, Papa. Tomorrow is another day, and we'll know more—life’s a mystery."

Imagining me holding Annie as an infant and her melting into my heart, the storm subsiding inside. My little one sees in my eyes that he's here now, not living in fear. He feels my strong arms and the love of the man he has grown up to be. He knows he lives in my heart and won't be taken away.

My surgery is over. I turn over and hear my wife's breath. I can't see her, but I feel her shadow in the darkness. Even though I’m still in the hospital, I know I am home again and that what I feel is real—my body hurts. I am in pain, but I‘m not dying or being taken away by the bogeyman.

In the stillness of the moment, the truth shines in a beam of light connecting mind and heart.

The bogeyman isn’t a monster or ghost in the closet or basement, just a wounded child inside, carrying a shadow cast by things unspoken, misunderstood, or passed down without explanation.

I hear my granddaughter's words again: "Life is a mystery, Papa." And I boldly respond, "Yes, my precious ones. Sometimes the scariest things just need to be held in the light. That’s when we see the truth—nothing can take that away. 

I'm alive—and so are you—living in the light of invisibility, with hope and grace."

Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold, or long to be held by, in the light of invisibility.

Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.