Waking up to a home invasion has to be one of the scariest things—opening your eyes, and there’s someone there. A stranger in the doorway. A long-haired man in a backpack, standing over your bed with a machete. The front door wide open and the dog with her hair raised, not even barking, just stunned and staring at a fellow resembling Santa Claus standing in front of the couch with his pants down. What happens next?Article continues after advertisement
These nightmares of men, often with knives, in backpacks or top hats, suddenly inside, have gotten worse since we bought this place last fall. As opposed to past apartments, we sleep on the first floor now, and our house has so many windows that, at three in the morning, nowhere is safe to look—faces could appear anywhere, in the most innocuous shadows drifting behind the panes; there’s so much glass for someone to shatter. Convince me otherwise, but sleeping is always an unsafe thing to do. Even at home, even in your own bed, even with a dog—who’s on watch? The fact that home invasion happens at all vindicates our archaic survival instincts: bedtime anxiety, sleep dread. All very reasonable I think, not at all vestigial. Complacency kills.
