Until recently, I have always kept my childhood a secret. Even still, I tell half-truths and dull my memories to make listeners more comfortable. So maybe here, on this platform and in this community, I can tell a whisper of that truth.

When I was 5 my mom told me that she was molested by her father, my grandfather. I remember the moment clearly — the lavender smell of my mom, the soft touch of my unicorn sheets, and the awful sound of my mom sobbing while I held her in my tiny, little arms. Did you know that if kids learn about sexual abuse at a young age they can take on the attributes of children who have actually been sexually abused? Well, it’s true. Until I was about 10, I wouldn’t change in front of anyone, I was uncomfortable with physical touch, and I had nightmares that my grandfather was touching me inappropriately. This was the start of my night terrors. Although I was young, I remember I wanted help but my mom told me not to tell anyone about my grandfather. I kept the secret until I was 19. 

Around 8 is the first time I saw my dad hit my mom. There are no excuses for laying your hands on another person, but my mom was saying awful things to my dad — pushing, pushing, pushing. My dad snapped. He punched her cheek, which swelled up into her eye. My mom told me to carry my three year old brother into another room, and take care of him — who was supposed to take care of me? The next day, everyone pretended it didn’t happen. 

From 8 until I was 20, I witnessed my mom or dad physically abuse the other every other month. When my dad left after hurting her, my mom would hurt me. She slapped me — hard — across the face throughout that time. She pulled my hair, yanking me across the ground. She spit on me. My night terrors morphed into these moments. 

My mom physically abused my dad and I, but demanded our love. If we didn’t give it to her, she hurt herself. I was 10 when I found my mom on the ground, with bloody wrists and a knife next to her. I wanted to call the hospital, but she wouldn’t let me. She attempted to kill herself again when I was 16 — that time it was my 9 year old brother who found her. And yes, finding my dying mom is a night terror I still experience.  

The night before my high school Track Senior Night, my mom and I were fighting. I decided to run away — at least to get out for some air. I sprinted out the door barefoot, and ran down the pavement until my lungs were on fire. When I came back, my mom kept repeating to my dad that I was a disrespectful bitch. I could tell my dad was getting angrier and angrier. He grabbed my neck and threw me on my bed. His grip on my neck became tight until I could no longer breathe. That’s when I started hitting him, telling him to get off me. He let go and slapped my inner thigh hard enough to immediately leave a red handprint that raised off my skin. The next day, my neck and thigh were bruised but I still had to walk on the field with my parents, and pretend I was okay. I qualified for states that day in the high jump. Sometimes the weight of my fiancé on top of me triggers this memory — it reminds me of the weight I felt on top of me that night. Maybe this memory plagues my waking-self so much that it does not appear in my night terrors (working theory). 

When I first got to college, I was not ready to deal with my childhood trauma. I would mentally groan when people would say, “tell me about your family!” I suppressed these feelings, and was desperately trying to find control. And more selfishly, I wanted people to care about me. These desires developed into an eating disorder. I lost 70 pounds over four months. My college threatened to make me take a semester off or get my shit together (liability and what not), so I was forced into counseling. That was the first time I talked about my trauma, and its lasting effects. 

This is when I realized that it was not normal to have horrifying dreams that leave you panting/crying/throwing up. All my therapists have said that working through each reoccurring memory while awake, dulls the effect of the memory at night. I tried working through those memories— it’s too damn hard. I used to think that I was weak for shying away, but what I didn’t know is that I just needed some medicinal assistance (not cannabis). Four years out of college, I found a psych that recommended Prazosin. I take it in the morning and night, and my night terrors have essentially disappeared. I still work through those tough memories, but I am able to sleep and not encounter my demons every night. 

SO, this was just a very longwinded way to talk about night terrors, and the beauty of modern medicine. Please let me know about your similar experiences, and what made you find some peace.