Last night, I woke up screaming my guts out.
In my dreams which felt too real, I saw a burglar trying to infiltrate the house. I was shouting for help, but my mouth couldn’t fully form the words. I was trying to scream at the burglar, but all I was capable of making were muffled sounds of protest. When I woke up, of course, I was in bed, drenched in cold sweat, and the night quiet as the dead. Geez.
Welcome to my slow descent towards paranoia.
I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened. But no, every night brings new terrors to me. Ever since our yard was broken into, and our water pump and some electronics we foolishly left outside were taken, I never fully trusted the security of our place. True, the house itself is practically impregnable, and with what our 3 dogs who would bark at a moving leaf may be enough to provide alarm. But I think the night terrors are due to other deeper sources; and when I talk of security, I’m just skimming the surface when I say it’s just the house I’m worried about. I know enough of psychology to recognize that my sense of lack of security and safety is really about having to face the challenges ahead without parents. The house is just a metaphor for everything I find myself responsible for and how all of it is gradually slipping from my control.
I’m used to my own melodrama. But night terrors? Come on. That’s a new level of insanity right there. Gads, I keep telling myself to get over it already but it’s harder than it looks. Everything in my waking life is being compromised. I can barely stay awake during the day and constantly seeking sleep. I’m seriously considering sleeping pills if only I’m not terrified that my anxiety over being burgled again may prove true someday and I will not be able to do something about it because I’m trapped in drugged slumber. Wargh.
Good thing I don’t own an oven and I love my ear too much to imagine ever cutting it off. Ha. Other than that, I think I may become certifiable any day now. :D