I’ve had insomnia from a young age. Falling asleep has always been a chore. But since middle school, I’ve had crazy dreams and nightmares that would normally drive people mad.
At night I make my room super cold, I cuddle under the blankets and wait for sleep to come. My dream journal is beside me ready to have the nights adventures recorded. Most nights I just have absurd dreams with plots. And those plots I use to write stories.
I will have nightmares filled with blood and screaming. Dead bodies in bath tubs. Dark shadows in the corner of my room. I wake up in cold sweats and a racing heart, but a smile on my face. People think I’m weird for it. But the stories that come out of my sleep are amazing. I listen to the no sleep podcast and I fall asleep to it. The stories inspire my dreams, and add fuel to the fire.
It may seem odd and a bit terrifying. But my brain has a wicked way of creating horror.
I sat in my dorm room waiting for my first online appointment with my psychiatrist. I had been experiencing depression since I started high school and I was now a sophomore in college. I was laying in bed on night and I had the thought that I didn’t want to continue life anymore. Not necessarily in the suicide sense. I didn’t want to kill myself. I just wouldn’t mind falling asleep and…not waking up.
The doctor hopped onto the call and we did the usual questions, when did I start feeling this way, have I experienced any trauma in my life, and so on.
“And how would you say your sleep quality is?” He asked.
This wasn’t a question I was expecting. But of course I complied and answered.
“Um, I’m an insomniac. I have been since I was little. I would just have trouble falling asleep but I would always wake up feeling well rested. I take a sleeping pill, melatonin and that’s definitely helped.”
“That’s good, and do you dream a lot? At night?”
“Yeah. Well, I have what most people would think are nightmares.”
“Elaborate please.”
“I have…vivid dreams, we’ll they’re dreams to me because they don’t bother me. But I have dreams of people being killed, being chased, watching people be tortured…alot of blood.” I swollowed.
“Why do you think these dreams don’t bother you?”
I hadn’t thought about it, I took a moment to reply, “Um, I know it’s a dream. That I’ll wake up. No matter how vivid it is. I know it’s not real, and I tend to enjoy it sometimes.”
The doctor didn’t look at me like I was crazy or weird he just nodded. “It’s interesting what impact dreams can have, and you seem to have a very good understanding of yourself. How long would you say you’ve had these dreams?”
“For as long as I can remember. Sometimes I turn them into short stories.”
“Writing is very therapeutic, do you write alot?”
“Yeah, im actually a writer and a horror fan.”
The doctor laughed, “Well then these dreams must be good inspiration.”
“Yeah they are sometimes.”
We finished the appointment and the doctor diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder and PTSD. Both I knew I had. It didn’t come as a shock.
I have continued to keep a dream journal, and it doesn’t matter what I experience during the day, my dreams always have screams and bloody torture in them. But I wake up feeling fine, sometimes even in a good mood and wishing I could continue dreaming. The thing is people admire me for what I experience at night. Some think I’m a sadist. That blood doesn’t scare me. But dreams are not reality. And if it were possible to see what goes on inside my head, I know I would be put in a mental institution.
The antidepressants stopped the dreams for a short amount of time, this made me sad but I knew they’d be back. And I was right and they were ready to fuel my wicked imagination.