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I did something radical last night. I turned my iPhone off.

I haven’t slept without my phone turned on and within easy reach since I got my first iPhone — in June 2007. I activate its “do not disturb” mode every night. But every time I wake up for a few minutes — or longer — I’m checking for notifications and messages and emails and whatever else I can find.

For almost 20 years, I’ve slept next to a small mobile computer that has ruled my life. 

At 3:30 a.m. — Sunday night, Monday morning — I was trying to get to sleep and having little luck. I had been in bed for almost two hours. I had too much on my mind that I was going to do Monday. I kept thinking about the people who might call, the text messages I might have waiting and a dozen other things that could be waiting for me each time I woke up.

Suddenly, I rebelled against this electronic tether to the outside world. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to wonder what notifications might be waiting for me.

I hesitated. The idea of shutting it off felt wrong. But I finally reached over and slid the control to turn off the phone.

For the first time in years, I felt free. Just a little bit.

And then I slept peacefully.

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I still can’t get accustomed to taking midnight walks by myself.

For almost 10 years, Lucy was my constant companion for these meandering walks that let us explore our neighborhood and the downtown area of the suburb where I live.

When I’ve walked those streets for the last nine months, I’ve left the leash at home — and I left it at home tonight. I walk silently down streets where the loudest noises come from the crickets all around me. I hear no heavy panting. I hear no sound of a dog’s nails on the pavement. I see no eyes looking up to me as though to ask where we’re exploring next.

And it feels inconceivable that my friend Lucy is gone.

It’s not just me, though. Other people notice. About six weeks after Lucy died, a stranger who lives a few blocks away stopped me when I was walking earlier in the evening. I was taking a short walk along the route that Lucy had taken most often when I heard someone call out to me from a porch.

It was an older woman who I don’t know. She asked about my dog and I explained that I had lost Lucy six weeks before. She said she had been watching us walk for years and had missed us lately, so she feared something might be wrong.

Then she broke down and cried.

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For some of us, the demons are always lurking.

We’re not always aware of them. They don’t always make themselves obvious. But when certain things happen and certain triggers are pushed inside of us, the echoes of old dysfunction suddenly become quite loud and the demons are eager to come out and play.

I got glimpses of some of my old demons earlier tonight. I felt like running away. And even though it’s been an hour since I escaped the presence of the people involved, I still feel the effects in my body.

My heart rate is still slightly elevated. Some of my muscles feel clenched. And I feel something vague and terrible in the pit of my stomach.

It adds up to echoes of the ways I learned to feel as a child — when I was small and powerless, when I felt terrified of the narcissist who ruthlessly ruled my life.

I felt afraid tonight. And none of it made sense to my conscious mind, because there was nothing rational to be afraid of.

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