April Feature Writer!
This month's feature writing is by Cori Matusow.
Night Terrors
February 21, 11:43pm
There are ten thousand little black spiders on my pillow. I shriek and fling it across my room and immediately discover thousands more spiders on my bedsheet. I frantically wipe them all away with my hand as if they were scuttling cookie crumbs. A few seconds later, all the spiders are gone. I get up to retrieve my pillow from the floor and slide back under the covers. As my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, lit only by a digital clock on dim, I check the time: 11:43. My husband rolls over and says, “Night terror?” I tell him yes, spiders. I apologize to him.
Night terrors can occur 30-60 minutes after you go to sleep, often caused by emotional distress and anxiety.
February 27, 12:31am
A warm gust brushes my cheek. My hands reach for something inches above my face as I open my eyes. A black smoky mass hovers by the ceiling. I gasp. In a flash, the smoke is absorbed into the ceiling and bright red lights blink randomly in its place. Aliens. I look over to my husband to see if he saw them, but he’s sleeping soundly. I wriggle my body deeper into the bed and pull the covers up to my chin. To forget what has just happened, I shut my eyes and stare into the murky space.
Anxiety is characterized by fear, dread, and worry. Persistent anxiety may be caused by stress or childhood trauma, including unpredictability, tension, or insecurity.
March 13, 12:19am
Something grazes my arm. I open my eyes and see a snake slithering at the foot of the bed. I scream, waking my husband. “What? What’s happening?” he asks. “There’s a snake!” I rush out of bed and across the room to get away from it. I trip and fall on my right hip in the doorway. “A snake,” my husband repeats in a whisper. I don’t see the snake anymore. I look under the bed. My cat is staring at me from the other side. I can’t catch my breath; my heart is pounding. I stand and walk back to my side of the bed. I crawl beneath the blanket, ensuring every inch of me is covered, and keep my eyes wide and steady in case the snake comes back. I soon realize there is no snake. Our other cat is on the bed, tail waving in an S. Oh. My husband spoons me. My eyelids grow heavy.
Night terrors involve hypnagogic hallucinations, which are vivid and realistic dream-like sensations that occur as you quickly transition from sleep to wakefulness. These hallucinations are typically activated by visual, aural, or other sensory stimuli.
April 2, 11:55pm
My own gasp awakens me. I open my eyes, spring upright, and see a man standing by the bedroom door. I pant and stare and freeze. What does he want? Is he going to hurt me? Kill me? My husband also wakes up but doesn’t seem concerned. I tell him there’s a man here. He surveys the room but doesn’t see him. “He’s right there!” My husband rolls out of bed to check. I drop down and pull the blanket over my head, my breathing fast and shallow. My eyes are as open as they can be even though I’m hidden under the covers. My husband comes back and says that there’s no one there. “You’re having a night terror,” he says to soothe me. I shut my eyes tight and try to believe him.
If your night terrors persist, eliminate sleep disruptions like bright lights by using a sleep mask.
May 19, 12:02am
A low moan infiltrates my consciousness. After lifting my sleep mask to my forehead, I sit straight up and look down at my husband to my left. His mouth is hanging open and he’s moaning. He’s dying. My heart bangs against my chest and I say, “No!” out loud. I grab his shoulder and shake him. He mutters, “What? What?” He’s not dying. “I thought you were dying.” He groans and asks why I’m not wearing my sleep mask. “I was wearing it, but you were moaning, so I took it off.” He groans again. I apologize and lie back down.
If your night terrors persist, use a white noise machine to block sounds that might infiltrate your sleep cycle.
June 23, 12:10am
My tingling hand rouses me. It’s half numb, half pins-and-needles. It feels big, like fluid is swelling and pushing my skin away from the bones and muscles. I pull my mask down to my neck to examine it using the yellow glow emanating from the white noise machine on my side of the bed. Then I notice my fluttering heartbeat. Oh no. I’m having a heart attack and my hands are swelling. Is it AFib? Is this it for me? I turn back to my hand, which looks normal. I once read that, for women, drinking water during a heart attack can stave it off. I take a swig of water from my water bottle, just in case. After pushing my eye mask back over my eyes, I press two fingers to my neck to count my pulse. I think I’m ok. I punch my pillow to fluff it and turn to lie on my side. I count the beats again to fall back asleep.
If your night terrors persist, ensure that your home and your sleep environment are comfortable and conducive to falling and staying asleep.
August 3, 11:30pm
I’m wearing my eye mask. The noise machine is on. The doors are locked and the chain is on. I’m lying on my left side, head resting on a foam pillow that slowly sinks. I’m sandwiched between flannel bedsheets. My arms and legs hug a velvety body pillow. My husband is breathing softly next to me. A purring cat is curled up between us. Nothing can bite me, kill me, or abduct me. As of my last annual exam, my vitals and bloodwork are good. I’m absolutely, positively fine.
If you’ve tried everything and your night terrors persist, you may need to accept that this is your reality no matter what senses you blunt or measures you take, and that, due to a series of traumatic experiences in your childhood – like being awakened by a scream and trying to decipher if it was your mother rolling a winning move in backgammon against your father or the start of an escalating shouting match between the two of them, ending with you flying down the stairs to keep them from attacking each other with whatever heavy object is within arm’s length, and how they screamed at you to get back in bed, where you lay alone wondering what you could do better next time to get them to stop before someone got hurt or walked out the front door for the last time – your anxiety may haunt you in perpetuity.
August 3, 12:22am
I’m suddenly aware of my organs. They’re undulating in the center of my torso as my blood swishes and gurgles around them. Cancer is growing in my stomach. Or my colon. Maybe my lungs. I can detect cancer cells multiplying. My organs are moving out of the way to accommodate them. My eyes open and widen under my mask. I lie still, breathing heavy breaths. I turn onto my side and close my eyes again under my mask. As I nod off, my mind shows me an image of a glistening, glittering assemblage of red and pink organs dancing inside my body, swaying and pulsing to the steady beat of my heart.
This story was inspired by the Nine of Swords.
Cori Matusow is a New York-based writer and photographer. Cori has recently been published in under the gum tree, The Quarter(ly), the New Croton Review, and Superpresent. She has forthcoming publications of her essay “Shattered” in Stone Canoe and photos in Blood and Bourbon and Sunlight Press. www.corimatusow.com