The dreams are violent—not against me, but against the people I love most. My hands reach out in the dream, but I can’t move fast enough.
I’m far away and can’t find my car keys. I shout, but my voice doesn’t work. Always, I’m trapped, watching helplessly, as if my worst fear is to be a witness instead of a protector.
When I finally snap awake (usually around 3 a.m. or so), the terror lingers heavy in my chest. Heart pounding, sleep-dress soaked, breaths shallow, every nerve screaming...READ FULL; FROM THE SOURCE.
The room is silent, yet my mind is anything but. It replays those images, then leaps to real-world worries: deadlines, arguments, mistakes I can’t undo, disasters that haven’t yet happened but feel inevitable.
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