Here we are, again.
Up all night, again.
Scared to go to bed, again.
Not just scared to go to sleep. Physically afraid of my bed.
The place we’re supposed to be safest, where I should be free to be my most vulnerable. It makes sense that’s where I’ve been targeted most, where I’ve experienced the most trauma.
When darkness descends, the familiar hum begins. I imagine entering my bedroom and laying down to sleep. My heart hammers and my thoughts begin to race.
It’s been years. I’ve moved and bought a new bed. I’ve tried melatonin, meditation, yoga, and all of the recommended sleep remedies, but I can’t shake the stress response.
I guess that’s what happens after awakening so many times to the powerless despair of being filled with unwanted body parts. The putridly saccharine cloud of alcohol and poor dental hygiene puffed down from his looming face. His exertion punctuated with lewd comments about how he just couldn’t wait to take me. So he did.
I used to fight back, until I learned.
After that, I’d act like I wasn’t awake, hoping in vain that he’d back off if I wasn’t responsive. Sometimes I’d even pretend to moan, understanding it would at least help the invasion be over faster.
Nowadays, I do occasionally make it into my bed rather than nodding off on the living room couch in the safe glow of the TV. However it happens, the victory of falling asleep is rewarded with crippling nightmares of running and fighting for my life. At least until I inevitably wake up exhausted to the alarm I’ve snoozed at least four times.
