An Awaking Nightmare

- Rachael Combe

I ’d wake in the middle of the night, gasping for breath as though surfacing from a near drowning. My heart would be racing, my skin clammy, my organs suffused with fear, like I’d been pickled in some bitter brine while I slept, and now, at 2 or  3am, I was fighting my way out of the jar. I’d then lie awake for hours, my life flashing before my eyes – but only the sad, bad, mad parts. Even the happy scenes curdled in this film – I was screwing up my children, ruining my marriage, wasting my life. And my life! Was I dying? This gasping and sweating in the night – something was wrong with me.

The episodes started in my early thirties and went on for years, gradually progressing in severity and frequency until, according to my Fitbit, I was averaging only four hours of sleep a night. I’d always been an insomniac, but this was a new level of hell. In the past, I’d prided myself on being a hard worker. Now I could barely keep my mind on a task for 15 minutes. My body began to break down: my ankle gave out mysteriously, and I had to wear an orthopaedic boot for months. I ached everywhere. I developed rosacea. It was hard to eat out because everything but the plainest food made me sick.