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Insomnia

Zachary Jarrett

    I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I am also a survivor of excruciating nightmares. It is because of this abuse that I suffer frequent and near crippling bouts of insomnia. The memories and my dreams bleed into each other, blending cause and effect into an awful and sleepless collage of misery.
    The root cause of my sleep disorder lies in the way my abuse went down. It was always at night. I was always in bed.
    During the day, my abuser, a seemingly perfect surrogate father, doted on me and gave me gifts. He took me places that my mother did not. During the day, we would venture out to Maymont Park in the city of Richmond where he lived. We walked through the park during daylight so that we could admire all its splendor. But at night, when it was time to sleep, he would lay in the dark, waiting for me. In his single closed room he pulled out a cot for me. It looked like couch cushions crafted from coarse, harsh, hairy material. I itched wherever it touched my exposed skin.
    I hoped that I could hear him asleep in our room. I hoped I could hear the transition from slow rhythmic breathing to snores. That would signal a night free of terror and embarrassment. It hardly ever came. Instead he crept over to me while he thought I was sleeping and committed unspeakable acts, whispering to me of the size of my “endowments” and how much he enjoyed them.
    I lay perfectly still. I had no idea what would happen if he knew I was awake. Instead I lay paralyzed with fear. This was the ritual inflicted that made sleep impossible.
    At age eight I was riddled with terrible nightmares. The dreams were so intense that upon waking I would call out and run screaming into my sister’s room for solace.
    The dreams I had lay obscured by time. My tenuous grasp of memories became partially forgotten. I remember their intensity. I remember their effect on me and the fear that came with them. The dreams were haunted by a figure blackened like coal with no head. They showed me something beneath my bed. Although that terror is common for a young child, the vividness of my dreams were horrifically blown out of proportion.
    One dream in particular still haunts me to this day. In my childhood bedroom sat a table, lined with food like a feast. In my dreams, my family and I sat eating. The corner of the room had a small child hanging from a noose, eyes open and clearly glazed with death. I was terrified.
    Sleep paralysis happens when a person is aware of their surroundings while in a state of rest. They find themselves unable to move. Often visions of horrific situations or creatures attack them. Many nights throughout my childhood, shadows danced along walls, taking on unnatural forms and appearing impish, yet very much alive. I could not see a way out from under these nightmares.
    Insomnia can often times come as a voluntary act. If night terrors are too much, an individual may not want to sleep.
    Under normal conditions my post-traumatic stress is like a minefield in my brain. One false step and I’m triggered into remembering terrible things in widescreen and technicolor. The memories themselves, recalled in my weakest and most tender moments, come flowing back in a place most find respite: the bedroom, specifically, my bed.
    I choose to live with insomnia because I choose to avoid the bitter pall of unrelenting nightmares, of pain unremembered, and lingering memories all too real and excruciating. Insomnia is my rest.

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