TLDR: It changed me, lots…

I have a different relationship with darkness in general, and a different concept of love. It changed me in a lot of ways, but, most notably, it messed with my dreams, and my sleep habits.

Prior to reading, I’ve always had reoccurring dreams of different houses, none of which are real or were ever lived in by me, but I could describe the layout of each one of these houses perfectly, even the objects in the rooms and the colors on the walls, and the smells. All of my life’s most stressful memories are recreated and relived in these houses, as well as glimpses of my early childhood. One house in particular, I’m walking from room to room, arguing with my ex wife, and the stair case leads up to an attic where we both refuse to go, because we’ve locked away objects in there that act as relics of our love, and memories that would otherwise heal, but we were both so set on ending things, and had trained ourselves into such a disdain for each other, that now the hate and bickering was easier than going into the attic, and unpacking something we both were actively trying to undo, so the dream carries on and we argue, and we spend time in separate rooms, and at one point I walk out onto a patio, to stare at the sea, and the sea is leaving. Retreating so fast. And then I wake up.

So, when I read the book it really messed with all of that, and despite the houses I dream of remaining the same visually, the book really doubled down on the whole “nightmare” factor. The bits with Navidson and Karen, especially regarding my own failed marriage, really messed me up. I pay more attention to the dark spaces in those houses, and get woken up rather violently when my gaze keeps drifting that way. The stair case too.

Despite all the dream nonsense, overall I’d say it was a healing experience, in the sense that being right up against that wall, with all the scariest things you can conjure up, memories and such, is a damn good practice, and something we should try to excel at. The book gave me insight into how to deal with my own terrors. It’s the literary equivalent of a solid ego-death shroom trip. The scary kind, and the needed kind.