I forgot how horrifying night terrors were until Monday night, when I spent a lovely several hours gasping for air and freaking the heck out as I dozed in and out of sleep, trying to break its hold on me. Honestly, I could have gone the whole of my life without remembering that feeling. I’ve been chronically ill since my 20s, and while I often feel terrible, nothing makes me feel as helpless as sleep paralysis.
During an attack, I wake up multiple times in quick succession, unable to breathe, unable to move, begging for help that never comes, but still trying to keep quiet because I know Karen needs her sleep and don’t want to be a bother while dying. It’s rude to make a fuss, after all.
I often think I’m going to die, so in many ways I am uniquely qualified to deal with the horrors of sleep paralysis, but that doesn’t mean I like them any more than anybody else. I don’t wish that kind of suffering on my worst enemy, who is ironically me most of the time.
I’ve spent most of the week try…
