When night comes

Note: This post contains some sensitive information regarding mental health. My brain's trauma response has been, at the very least, interesting to observe. I have had dark thoughts imagining suicide, I have fantasized about others feeling pain so mine might ease, and I have endured panic attacks no matter where I am—concerts, trivia night, even the Pride parade.

One of the most frequent responses comes in the form of nightmares. For one solid week, I had one every single night. I have already feared waking up because I know the sadness will still be a reality, but I have also now developed a fear of falling asleep because the dreams are so vivid, and the panic attacks start in my sleep.

One particular nightmare stands out. It happened about the seventh week after the initial trauma. In the dream, she was playing soccer, and I had come to watch. I think I was surprising her. The stands were mostly empty so there was no way she could miss me. I wasn't blending into a crowd.

The rest of her team was there, but she was the only one in focus. No matter where she ran on the field, my eyes followed her, and she remained in focus.

At first I waved a few times to get her attention, but she didn't seem to notice. One time, she turned towards the stands, and I waved bigger. Hmm. Still nothing.

She still didn't see me. I waved again. And again. I added claps. Cheers. Surely she would notice that. Nothing.

The plays continued and she looked almost professional on the pitch. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but her teammates and the handful of spectators cheered enthusiastically after she kicked the ball. I cheered too.

Then I decided to call out her name. I felt like an overly enthusiastic parent seeing their child play any sport for the first time. She didn’t turn around. I shouted again because my first attempt was a little soft. Still nothing.

Determination replaced excitement. I was sure she would appreciate me showing up and supporting her. Right?

I screamed her name again. And again— louder. I continued, getting louder each time. No response.

At one point she turned, looked directly at me again, and then stared past me as if I weren’t there at all. My enthusiasm collapsed into desperation then desperation into urgency. I shouted and waved. Again. And again.

The short, labored breathing from raising my voice set in. Shout. Clap. Wave. Repeat.

I could no longer wave. I was too weak. I could no longer stand. My knees buckled under me. At that moment, I gave up and surrendered to the notion that she would never see me.

I woke up instantly, as if struck by lightning. The cat sleeping between my legs bolted off the bed. The dog lifted his head with a low growl, then settled again.

My chest rose and fell quickly. The tears were real. I grunted— once, maybe twice. Maybe it's what the real-world version of the dream scream sounds like.

It took me half a minute to understand where I was. It took another half a minute to realize that, both in the dream and in real life, I wanted nothing more than for her to see me, to know I was there, supporting her, still rooting for her.

The tears doubled, then tripled. I sat in bed sobbing, counting to ten, and finding some semblance of composure. My breathing was shallow. I tried my therapist's 3x3 grounding exercise. It wasn't working. Or was it? I had no clue.

I was laser focused on the sadness. My breathing slowed. The tears eased. The analysis began. I saw the direct correlation between dream and reality.

This wasn't the first of such episodes. She has often been the main character. She will likely be again

Part of me thinks my brain creates intensely stressful scenarios because it still thinks she will come save me. It keeps her in the role of  my steady support even when I know that version of her, of us, is gone.

An hour later, still sad and still uncertain who she is in my life, I fell back asleep.