I am terrified of the dark.

Ever since I was 2, I have never been able to get to sleep without some fear of something dreadful happening. It could be as silly as monsters lurking under my bed or in my closet, or as petty as the tiniest noises made by the gentle breeze outside my window. Either way, the dark was my enemy, and I felt like it's prey. Constantly hunted by the figments of my imagination. To put it this way, I have learned to sleep with one eye open and my ears at full attention.

Honestly, I don't know why I hate the dark. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. My parents have always consoled me, assured me that monsters don't exist and as long as I kept my window locked that I should have no fear of somebody breaking in. Yet, I choose to believe the crazy stories my head conjures up.

My parents named me Uriela, meaning 'God's light'. It seems like it was all a big joke now. God's light, it seems, is easily smothered by fantasy stories and the inane fear thought up in the head of a 2 year old girl. Here I am at 18 years of age, and my mind still wins the fight every night. A constant war that I feel almost pathetic for taking part in, easily surrendering myself to the idea that the darkness will swallow me whole and I am to just accept my fate that I may never get past that thought.

I've driven my parents mad over the years. Wake up calls around midnight, one a.m., seem commonplace now. They've learned to live with it. My screams when something goes bump in the night, or the nightmares that plague me when I close my eyes. I've become nearly catatonic. When I was 10, my parents decided that they needed a break and tried to send me to summer camp with some of my friends. You can guess what I thought of that. I kicked, I screamed, I pleaded with them not to send me. Sleeping in a tent in the middle of nowhere, it was the perfect set up for a horror movie. Except this was real life and I would not let them do it to me.

"You need to be with your friends on your own for a while," they kept saying.

"No, no, I don't want to go!" I screamed back, clutching on to my bed.

"You won't get over this if you don't try something different. We have had it!" My dad tried to reason with me, but I wasn't buying it. Sure, I felt bad for all the trouble I had caused them, but sending me to the woods with nothing but a flimsy piece of sheer plastic and a zipper to call my room seemed too harsh. I hated tents.

"I'm not going!" I yelled, stomping the ground for emphasis. They would have to put me in a straight jacket if they wanted me to go so badly.

Eventually they gave up and let me stay home for the Summer holidays. But, there was a catch. I had to see a therapist if I wanted to stay home. Appointments had to be at least once a week. I complied, anything to stay in the sanctuary of my room. Eight years after that day, and I have improved slightly. I have stayed at other people's houses overnight without crying or screaming. I never slept though, and would always leave early the next morning to go home and sleep for most of the day.

I don't want to be afraid any more. My sanity is on the line here. One night, I'm sure something will happen, and God's light will shine and eradicate my twisted ideas.

If only I had known it was a demon that would help it shine through...