The Two Sides of October
Continued
Part 3: The Agony
I don’t know where to begin with this part, so bear with me as I try to untangle a lifetime of thoughts, memories, and fears that seem to resurface every October.
While the month brings much joy, there is also a darkness and melancholy that I can’t shake. My earliest memories of this feeling go back to when I was around five or six. I used to have terrible night terrors. In one recurring dream, I’d be forced to the top of a steep hill, like the crest of a rollercoaster, and then I’d plummet into a black hole of nothingness, suffocating in the darkness. I’d wake up screaming, trapped in a panic. Once, I remember my father shaking me awake, trying desperately to pull me out of the nightmare. Another time, my mother found me standing on my bed, still asleep, reaching my hands in the air and saying, “Jesus, help me, help me.” It frightened her.
These dreams didn’t happen every night, and I never knew what triggered them. But sometimes, I was terrified to fall asleep, even though I wasn’t reading scary stories then. It was like something dark had taken root in me, always lurking.
Then, when I was eight, I learned something that would change my life forever. One of my cousins told me I was “adopted.” Confused, I kept asking my mom about it, but she’d brush it off, saying, “Oh, your cousin doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Finally, I asked her one last time, and she told me the truth: my “real” father had died in a terrible car accident, and the man I called Dad had adopted me. My father had been only 25 years old when he died—on October 30th, the eve of Halloween.
The shock was overwhelming. It felt like a trap door had opened beneath me, just like in my nightmares, and I was free-falling into that same black emptiness. My father was dead. The man I’d thought was my dad wasn’t my “real” dad. I didn’t know what terrified me more—the loss of my father or the fact that I’d been living in a version of reality that wasn’t true.
I began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably. My mother called my dad into the room, and he came to comfort me. I asked him if he was “still my daddy.” With tears in his eyes, he assured me, “I’ll always be your daddy.” And that was it, as far as my parents were concerned. They’d told me the truth, and life was supposed to go on. But everything had changed.
From that moment, fear became my constant companion. I became terrified that my mom would die or that my grandmother—who often took care of me—would be taken from me, too. My dreams turned darker, filled with images of out-of-control cars and suffocating darkness. I started to fear that I would die young or that the devil himself was lurking outside my window.
I’m not sure if my obsession with Halloween and all things spooky began because of this or if it had already been there, waiting for a reason to surface. But October became a month filled with both anticipation and dread. I felt like I was carrying a terrible secret: I had a dead father and a dad who wasn’t my “real” dad. I felt different—an outsider.
Then, other deaths started to happen around me, compounding my fears. When I was nine, my mother’s cousin died of a heroin overdose at the age of 29. The following year, a local girl who was two years older than me went missing. Her story ran on the front page of the News Tribune. A week later, they found her body floating in the Charles River, and as far as I know, her killer was never found. I was convinced I would be next.
Around the same time, one of my friends in the neighborhood lost her mother to cancer. I remember seeing her dressed in a white poncho on the funeral day as she climbed into the hearse with her family. I felt a strange sense of connection; here was someone else who’d lost a parent. But I don’t think I ever spoke to her about it—I didn’t have the words or the understanding of what was happening in my head.
When I was 15, one of my school friends lost his 17-year-old brother in a motorcycle accident. By then, I’d developed a belief that I wouldn’t live past 25, just like my father. Each year that passed, each October that arrived, felt like a countdown to my death.
As I grew older, my fears expanded. Learning to drive terrified me—I avoided it until I was 19, convinced I’d die in a car crash like my father. When planning for college and a future, I couldn’t envision one for myself. I went through the motions because it was expected. I was bright and supposed to go to college and get a career. But in the back of my mind, I was always counting down, thinking, What’s the point?
I wanted to experience as much of the world as I could and live while I could. But my father—the man who raised me—was always a “fun sponge,” dismissing our desires for more with comments like, “Haven’t you had enough?” or “Suffering is good for you.” Whenever we wanted to try something new as a family, he’d respond with “Someday.” Yeah, I thought bitterly, someday you’ll be dead. Better live life now.
So that’s what I did. I went to college but dropped out. I ran away to England, got married, and had a child—all before I turned 25. When my 25th birthday arrived at the beginning of October, I was stunned and relieved to be alive. My father had died at 25, but I had made it.
Every October since, as I pass my birthday and approach the anniversary of my father’s death, I breathe a sigh of relief. I made it another year. But the fear hasn’t gone away—it’s only transformed. Instead of fearing for my own life, I fear for the lives of the people I love. It’s a new kind of agony that keeps its hold on me even as I try to embrace the magic and joy that October also brings.
Part 4: The Mask I Wear
If you met me, you’d have no idea I carry this much fear and anxiety. Outwardly, I’m outgoing, funny, and a natural performer—a lover of dark humor and an extrovert eager to learn, explore, and absorb every ounce of knowledge I can while I still can. Maybe all of that is a coping mechanism; if I keep busy, I don’t have to face the dread lurking beneath the surface.
There was a time when I felt free from these fears. When I was living abroad in London, surrounded by unfamiliar sights and sounds, it was as if I’d left my anxiety behind. Away from the reminders of my past, I could reinvent myself, creating a new life and identity. It’s strange, looking back—during that time, the IRA was setting off bombs in the city, there was a terrible fire at King’s Cross Station, and even a murder on one of the passenger trains. None of it fazed me. I lived without that constant, gnawing sense of doom for a while.
But when I returned to the States, the fear returned too, this time fixated on my children. I became terrified they’d be abducted, watching them like a hawk and unintentionally passing my anxiety onto them. They must have felt suffocated. When they learned to drive, I couldn’t bring myself to be in the car with them—I was too paralyzed by fear. I had to pay for lessons and let others help them practice. Even now, though they’re 34 and 28, I worry whenever they’re on the road.
Part 5: Haunted by Loss
This fear of losing someone I love in a sudden, horrible way has haunted me for as long as I can remember. Before my second husband and I got married, I was in constant terror that something would happen to him before our wedding day. It was as if I’d “used up” my luck by living past 25, so now he’d have to pay for it. I know it’s irrational, but that’s how fear works—it doesn’t have to make sense.
Over time, I’ve learned to live with this dread. It’s like a ghost, always there in the background. And as I get older and more people around me inevitably pass away, that ghost seems to get closer. I can drive, for example, but if it’s a long journey, I’m white-knuckling the whole way. Calming music or a podcast helps, giving me something to focus on besides the fear.
This past year has been challenging. Last October, I lost a beloved cousin to cancer—she was only a year older than me. A school friend, a policeman, was killed in the line of duty, brutally struck down by a deranged driver. And a dear college friend lost her husband of over forty years to ALS. They’d been planning a lovely retirement and had just bought a camper to travel in, and now he’s gone. Each of these losses feels like another reminder of how fragile life is and how it can turn upside down in an instant.
I just turned 59. I’ve outlived my father by 34 years, yet I still live as if I only have one more year left. Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s a reminder to seize the moment, appreciate what I have while I have it, and not put things off.
Part 6: Coping, One October at a Time
The suffocating nightmares of my childhood are gone, but lately, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, anxiety pressing down on me, unable to get back to sleep. I have tools to help me cope—mindfulness, Reiki, and long walks in nature. Walking in nature, especially, brings me peace. And I dance. When I’m on the dance floor, there’s no room for fear or anxiety, only joy.
Therapy has also been a lifeline. My therapist has helped me work through all this piece by piece for the past twelve years.
But every year, when October rolls around, I feel the reminder that I am, in a sense, on borrowed time.
Aren’t we all?
Started to respond but feeling inept. Just want you to know I read this and hear you. I’m grateful that you share your talent and your experiences.
Doreen, so very sorry that your fear has been so deep all these years. I feel this personally and deeply, as my father died when he was 25, I was an infant, My mother remarried and my birth father became like a ghost lingering in the corner. I knew about him, but I knew so very little. it just wasn't talked about. I can't imagine having the shock of finding out the way you did ! that missing piece of my life was larger than I realized, and the time came for me to go back and find all the pieces. I could't do that until my stepfather and my mother were gone. I ended up writing memoir about reconnecting with my father decades after we lost each other, and it was beautiful and healing. Loss comes in many forms, but it always carries pain with it. My husband and I adopted two girls, and I believe my own experiences have helped me to understand some of their struggles. I hope so. And I also hope that you will continue to heal and to find peace. Sharing your story is an act of real courage.