I told my father about it yesterday, and now he's taking me to see a shrink. I don't think I'm crazy, but maybe I am. Most people aren't afraid of going to sleep. I mean, I'm not scared of sleep... not really. I'm scared of dying.
The car pulls off Bell Road into a small carpark in front of a squat, square building. Dad parks the car and switches off the engine.
"Do you want me to go in with you?" he asks.
"No, I'll be okay," I say.
"Are you sure?" he says. Before I can answer, he adds. "I'll be back in an forty minutes."
"Okay, Dad."
Without taking off his seatbelt, Dad leans over, and wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. I wrap my arms around him, in an awkward, but still comforting side-on hug.
"You'll be okay," he says, and he kisses the top of my head. By the way he seems to be shaking, I think he's trying to convince himself, more than me.
"Yeah, Dad," I say.
He lets go, and I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I head to the front door of the building. I don't look back, but I know Dad is watching me, making sure I go inside. I don't know if it's because he's worried, or because he wants to make sure I actually go inside. I really don't like the idea of talking to a therapist. When Dad suggested it, there was a lot of yelling. Mostly from me.
I open the glass door and head inside the air-conditioned waiting room.
"Are you Bianca Wardell?" asks the receptionist. It's bright outside, so I blink a few times to focus on the lady in a colourful, floral dress.
"Yeah," I say, wandering up to the counter. "My Dad booked an appointment for me today?"
"Yes, Doctor Jacobs is just with another patient, but they'll be done in a minute. Please, take a seat."
The lady nods towards to a comfy-looking, pale blue couch by the door, and I head over to sit down. On the opposite wall, there's some abstract art, and one of those water-coolers with the big, plastic tank on the top. I glance around at the art on the wall. I can't tell what it's supposed to be. Is this some kind of test? Sit the patient down, and if they think they see faces in the art on the walls, they're crazy? Well, I don't see any faces, I just see swipes of paint. I'm not crazy.
I look at the water cooler. There's a soft humming in the waiting room, and I don't know if it's coming from the water cooler, or the air-conditioner. I feel so tired... I sigh and rub my eyes. I wish I could sleep... I hear heavy, ragged breathing. "Bianca..."
I feel cold fingers crawling across my shoulder, and snap my eyes open. The receptionist lets go of my shoulder. "Bianca? The doctor is ready."
"Did I fall asleep?" I ask, feeling a tightness rising in my chest.
"Doctor Jacobs will see you now. Room number six, just down the hall," says the receptionist, gesturing behind the front counter.
I take a deep deep breath, trying to slow my beating heart, and stand up.
"Uh... thanks," I say, and I head down the hall. She has cold fingers... at least, I hope those were her fingers I was feeling, and not the fingers of death.
I head for room six, which is waiting with the door open, and I head inside. The room has a couch in front of the window, with the blinds drawn, some plants in the corners, a filing cabinet near the door, and a desk with a computer and several files. At the desk, in a swivel chair, is sitting a thin, African woman with long, straightened hair wearing a business suit, and with thin, wire-framed glasses prominent on her nose.
"It's lovely to meet you, Bianca," says the woman, standing and offering me a handshake. "I'm Doctor Jacobs."
She has a soft, American accent. I wonder when she came to Australia from America. I take her handshake, and I'm comforted to note that she has warm hands. She offers me a seat on the couch, and closes the door.
"So, can you tell me why you're here today?" she asks, as she sits down in the chair once more.
"I'm not crazy," I say. Doctor Jacobs chuckles.
"No, you're not crazy. You're here because you want help."
"I'm here because my Dad thinks I'm crazy."
"We're not here to judge people. People think that if they say the wrong thing, they'll be declared 'crazy'... but look," Doctor Jacobs opens up the drawers on her desk. "Do you see a stamp labelled 'Crazy'?"
The drawer is full of blank forms, with some scattered pens. I shake my head.
"It's not my job to judge you," she says, closing the drawers. "It's my job to help you. So tell me, how can I help you?"
"Well, I... uh, I had a bad dream," I say, with a sigh.
"Oh? What kind of dream?" asks Doctor Jacobs, leaning closer.
"I had a nightmare. It was... no, this is stupid," I say, folding my arms.
"It isn't stupid," says Dr Jacobs.
"I can't sleep, because I had a bad dream! I sound crazy..."
"Nobody is calling you crazy," says the doctor. "Nobody except you. But why does it matter if you're crazy? What do you think will happen?"
"Well, if you're crazy, you're... y'know, crazy. They take you away."
"Nobody is going to take you away," says Dr Jacobs. "This is my office, and nobody is allowed through that door unless one of us is in danger," she says, gesturing towards the door.
"Crazy people are dangerous."
"Are you planning on hurting yourself?" asks the doctor. "Or me?""
"No."
"Then nobody is going to take you anywhere that you don't want to go. This is a safe place," she says. "Now, please, tell me about this dream."
I sigh once more, looking into her eyes. She is staring at me, expectantly.
"It wasn't just a dream. It felt so real..." I say. "I felt like I woke up in this strange bedroom. It was weird, and dark, and I didn't know where I was. The bed was different from mine, one of those ones with four tall posts on the corners. I tried to get out of bed. But, I felt so weak... it's like my body was being held down. I cried out for help, but I couldn't speak, my throat hurt... like I was dehydrated, y'know?"
Dr Jacobs nods, so I continue.
"So, I pulled myself out of the bed, it felt like the blanket weighed a tonne, but I got out, and I fell on the floor, and I was stumbling to get up. I called out again, and when I got to my feet, Death was standing there."
"Death?" asks Dr Jacobs, frowning.
"See, I knew you'd think I was crazy..."
"No, no, what I mean to say is, how did death look? Was this the classical skeleton, with the big... uh..."
"it didn't have a scythe. It was this shadow - the room was dark, but this thing was like pitch-black, inky black, but I could see, like, a ragged hood over its head, although I couldn't see the face, or skull, underneath. It was wearing wispy, ragged clothing, hanging off it- uh, off of it..."
I glance at the therapist, but she waits patiently for me to continue.
"Then, uh... that's when it, uh..." I feel my breathing get shallow as I remember the dream. I can still feel its cold, skeletal fingers around my throat. "Then it grabbed me - my neck. It grabbed my neck, and it, uh, it just squeezed, choking me."
"And that's when you woke up?" asks Dr Jacobs.
"No! No, that's... it, I mean I did, but no... it just kept squeezing, and I could hear it breathing heavily. I was so weak, but I remember, trying to stop it, for like, over a minute. It was strangling me to death. I only woke up when I died."
"Okay..." says Dr Jacobs. "And you haven't been able to sleep, since?"
"I've tried," I say. "But every time I try, I see it. It's like it's waiting for me..."
"Do you think it's real?" asks Dr Jacobs.
The right answer is probably 'no', but... I want to tell her the truth.
"Yes. I mean... obviously, it's not, right? It's a dream. But, it felt so real."
"If you know it's a dream, why do you say it's real?" asks Dr Jacobs.
"Because I felt like I was dying," I say.
"Have you ever felt like that before?" asks Dr Jacobs.
"No," I say.
"Then, how do you know that you were dying?"
"Because I couldn't breathe!" I snap.
"I'm sorry, what I meant is... sometimes, traumatic memories can cause us to have trauma dreams. I wasn't trying to dismiss your words, I simply meant to ask, are you sure that you've never felt like you were choking, or drowning, ever before? Or, ever had anything tight around your throat?"
"No," I say. "Not until after the dream."
"And this is the first time you've had this dream?"
"Yes."
Doctor Jacobs opens a drawer, takes out a form, and places it on the desk.
"Have you had trouble sleeping before?"
"No, not at all," I say.
"And, anyone else in your family?" she asks. I feel a tightness in my chest.
"Uh, yeah..." I mutter. "My Mum, she died in her sleep. And my grandpa."
"On your mother's side?" asks Dr Jacobs.
"Yeah," I say. "They just stopped breathing. They said it was sleep apnea."
"Is that why you can't sleep?"
"No. I don't have sleep apnea," I say. "My Mum wasn't overweight, and neither was my grandfather. So, when I was ten, Dad took me to a sleep clinic in Darwin, to see if there was something genetic. But, I don't have sleep apnea... I don't even snore. They said there's nothing wrong with me."
"That's not what I meant. You've lost two members of your family, in their sleep, do you think that's why you can't sleep?"
"Grandpa died before I was born," I say.
"And what about your mother?" asks Dr Jacobs.
"That was five years ago," I say.
"And, did you have trouble sleeping then?" asks Dr Jacobs.
"No..." I say. Then quickly, I add, "I mean, I loved her. I cried. Like, a lot. I still miss her, even today."
"It's okay," says Dr Jacobs. "I'm not accusing you of anything. People grieve in different ways. But, two people in your family - forgive me - but, they both suffocated in their sleep. Now, you're having dreams where you're being strangled. I don't want to coerce your opinion, so if you think I'm off-base, then please tell me. But, do you think these are connected?"
"...I don't want them to be," I say.
Dr Jacobs cocks her head to the side, listening. I sigh.
"Look, they don't know it was sleep apnea, do they? All they know is that she stopped breathing. And when the doctors said my grandfather had sleep apnea, of course they'll chalk that up to family history. But, what if it was something else?"
"Something like what happened to you?"
"Yeah..." I say. "I know it sounds crazy."
"It doesn't sound crazy. I really don't like that word. Is it so crazy to be afraid of dying in your sleep, when two of your famly have in the past."
"I guess not... but it was just a dream."
"Dreams can mean a lot. People with P.T.S.D. often relive their trauma; anxious people have anxiety dreams... and if we listen to music, we hear it in our dreams. I'm not suggesting that your dreams are trying to kill you, Bianca, but what if you were having trouble breathing, and your brain conjured up this reaper to try to make sense of it - of this strangulation you were feeling."
"So, you think I was actually choking in my sleep?"
"Do you?" she asks.
I rub my hand over my throat. I can vividly remember those, cold bony hands.
"Yes..."
"Then, I believe it as well."
"Alright... so, then, what do I do about it?" I ask.
"Well, that's up to you," says Dr Jacobs. "What do you want to do about it?"
"I want it to stop," I say. "I want to be able to sleep again, without this thing creeping up on me."
"Okay, that's good. It's good to have a clear goal. Is there anything else you'd like to work towards?"
"No, nothing," I say. "I just want to sleep. I'm so tired..."
"You said you've been awake for three days, is that right?"
"Yeah... three days and nights."
"Have you tried taking sleeping pills?"
"NO!" I snap, "I don't want to take drugs..."
"That's okay," says Dr Jacobs. "Like I said, it's up to you. These are your goals, and your decisions to make. If you want to avoid chemical therapy, then I won't prescribe you anything."
"Okay... sorry," I say, rubbing my eyes. "I don't mean to be so cranky. I'm just tired, that's all..."
"It's okay," she says. "I understand what you're going through. When I had my son, he cried constantly, and I didn't sleep for eight days. In the first few days, I was grumpy and cruel. After a week, I started hallucinating."
"Hallucinating?"
"Oh, yes. Your brain craves sleep. Without it, we can't function, and your mind starts playing tricks on you."
"And after eleven days, you die," I add, grimly.
"Eleven days? Who told you that?" asks Dr Jacobs, frowning.
"I read it on the internet."
"Well, it's just not true. You will die without sleep, yes; but it can take several months, up to a year," says Dr Jacobs, smirking. "So, if you're afraid that you'll drop dead in a week, well, you can relax. We've got time."
"Okay... well, that's good to know." I say.
"Alright then. So, it sounds to me like this fear of dying is keeping you up, because as you drift off, it's triggering a panic response that's snapping you awake again, does that sound like I'm in the right ballpark?"
"I guess so, yeah," I say, with a shrug.
"Alright. Now, I know you said you don't want drugs, but I have to ask, have you taken anti-anxiety medication before, or would you give that a go?"
"No, I don't want drugs," I say.
"That's okay, there's several methods of dealing with anxiety, drugs are just one of them. For you, why don't we try a combination of meditation, and a dream journal?"
"Okay, but what's a dream journal?" I ask.
"Oh, it's a combination of a sleep diary, and a dream report," says Dr Jacobs. She opens the other drawer of her desk, and takes out a small, cheap exercise book. "If you're having bad dreams, writing them out can help you to come to terms with them."
"But, I'm not sleeping," I say, taking the book from her. "How can I write down my dreams, if I don't have any?"
"This is also to write down what's keeping you up, when you try to sleep, and what's on your mind. The idea is to work on your sleep hygiene - to identify what's keeping you awake. But, give it time. You might even get a night of sleep before our session next Thursday. Then we can talk about your dreams."
"Okay," I say, flipping through the little book. I see that she's written headings on the first two pages. Tiredness Level, Time to Bed, Caffeine, Time to Wake... "Wait, did you say 'next Thursday'? Isn't that a little soon?"
"It's just to monitor your progress. We don't want you going too long without sleep. It can be dangerous."
"I thought you said it wouldn't kill me in eleven days. It takes months."
"It does... I'm not worried about you dying, Bianca. But, going for weeks without sleep can make you sick. You'll have problems with your memory, have terrible mood swings, hallucinate, feel nauseous. I'll do everything I can to keep you healthy, and if you ever need me, here" Doctor Jacobs takes one of her cards from her desk, and holds it out to me. "-this is my card. You can call me during business hours. After hours, if there's an emergency or you want to hurt yourself, call Lifeline. Their number is on there as well."
"Okay, thanks," I say, taking the card.
"Alright. Now, I'd like to show you a couple of ways to meditate, and hopefully these can help you calm down before bed."
"Meditate? Isn't that, like, a Buddhist thing?"
"Not really. Would that bother you?"
"I dunno. It just seems... I mean, I'm not religious."
"Religions don't hold a monopoly on meditation. Prayers and chants can be calming, but it's not because of religion, it's because focusing on one thing, helps to clear your mind. Yes, you can meditate on God, or a holy chant; but, you can also focus on something simple, like a campfire... or, you could even count sheep, to try to clear your mind."
"Count sheep? You want me to count sheep?"
"It doesn't matter what you focus on, so long as it helps you get to sleep. Counting sheep isn't the best option, but I have a few we can try. These don't all work for everyone, but we'll see what works for you. Does that sound good?"
"Yeah, I'd like that," I say.
"Okay," says Dr Jacobs, smiling. "Let's start with some breathing exercises..."
Breathe in slow, count to four; hold your breath, count to five; then breath out slow, count to six. I practiced it more on the car ride home. Dr Jacobs showed me a whole lot of breathing exercises, and that one was the most relaxing. But now, for the moment of truth...
I sit on the edge of my bed, wearing my long, comfy nightshirt. On my bedside table, I have the dream journal that Dr Jacobs gave me. I take out a pen, and fill out the Left page, labelled "Before Sleep". Time to Bed: 9 o'clock. Day Naps: Drifted off in Waiting Room. Caffeine: No. Pre-sleep activity: Wrote in this Journal, About to Meditate. Tiredness Level (0-5): 4. Stress Level (0-5): 4.
There's a space underneath to write what I did that day, but I leave it blank. I don't want to spend too long on this, I just want to see if I can sleep.
I put the dream journal on my bedside table, by the lamp. Dr Jacobs said that it's better to make it totally dark, when I try to sleep, so I switch off the lamp before lying down. I'm staring up at the dark ceiling. I'm not used to sleeping in the dark, but I close my eyes. My eyes are stinging, they hurt from staying awake so long, so I press my head into my pillow, ready to sleep. I still feel a tightness in my chest, so I start meditating.
Breathe in, one... two... three... four.... Hold breathe, one... two... three... four... five...
Breathe out, one... two... three... four... five... six...
Like before, as I breathe out, I feel like my body is deflating, and taking all of the tension out with it. I feel that tightness in my chest loosen.
Breate in, one... two... three... four.... as I hold my breath, I can feel my pulse slowing.
My frantic heart is calming down... Breathe out, one... two... I can feel myself drifting off...
Breathe in, one... two... three... four.... Hold breathe, one... two... three... four... five...
Breathe out, one... two... three... four... five... six...
Breathe in-
I feel a cold hand grasp around my throat. I snap my eyes open, and I see an impossibly black figure looming over me. My empty lungs strain against the fingers, and I grab at my throat, feeling the wrinkled, bony hands, cold like ice and vice-like in their grip, and I hear the ragged, heavy breathing as the thing squeezes tighter and tighter.
No, Stop! Please! I can't Breathe!
The blood is rushing to my head, and I feel like my face is going to explode from the pressure. I reach for the thing's face, but it's arms are longer than mine, so I desperately paw at the things arms. But my vision is getting blurry... the darkness is taking over... I can't... breathe...
I gasp for breathe and sit up in bed.
It got me... it got me again...
"D... Dad?" I gasp. I can breathe, but I can still feel those fingers around my throat. "Daddy?!"
I call out, but he can't hear me. He's still asleep. I'm all alone... it didn't work. I feel tears welling in my eyes.
"It didn't work..." I say, burying my head in my hands.
I just want to sleep. Please, just let me sleep... Why won't you let me sleep?! I sniffle, and wipe the tears out of my eyes, gasping from the wetness in my throat.
I switch my bedside light on, and breathe slowly, as I wipe away the tears.
"Come on, Bianca..." I say to myself. "You're fifteen, this is silly."
I lie back down on my pillow, and take a few more deep breaths.
I consider doing more counted breathing to calm down, but the idea of exhaling all of my breath at once sounds terrifying right now. Okay, no more breathing exercises... Dr Jacobs showed me a few more ways of meditation.
I've tried Counted Breathing. Coherent breathing? No... Belly breathing?
Ugh, why do so many of these have to involve breathing?
I stare up at the ceiling, lit by my bedside lamp, remembering what Dr Jacobs said about focusing your mind. So, as I stare at the ceiling, I imagine a wooden, picket fence... and visualize a cute, fluffy sheep, wandering over, and jumping the fence. One.
I imagine another, identical sheep, wandering over, and jumping. Two.
Then another sheep jumps the fence. Three.
I wonder how many it will take before I drift off to sleep.
I didn't sleep that night. I counted over one thousand, three hundred and twenty sheep before I realized it was past midnight. Then I stopped and just laid there, staring at the ceiling until sunrise. Now, I'm sitting on the school bus, headed for school, staring out the window.
Four days. I've now been four days without sleep. When Dad asked me if I slept this morning, I told him the truth, that I only slept for an hour before I woke up. But, I didn't tell him that I saw the reaper again. I still felt uncomfortable about crying in the middle of the night... I didn't want to tell him I'd called out and he hadn't answered. He already blames himself for being a single-parent, for not being able to save my Mum, I don't want him to blame himself for not saving me...
I stare out the window, trying to give my mind some kind of rest before I get to school. The houses drift by, as we head down the road. I watch the people wandering past, heading to work, or going shopping. I'm sure they all got a good night's sleep last night. Why am I the only one that can't?
The bus comes to an intersection, and stops, and I glance at the people waiting. As I do, I feel something staring at me, two glaring, red eyes on the other side of the street. I blink my weary eyes, and focus on the face looking at me. I can't see who it is, so I blink my eyes, to focus on the person standing under the shelter of a shopfront, but as my eyes focus, I realize that the reason the person looks so dark is because they're coloured completely black. And it's not a person, it looks like a sheep. A black sheep, with two red, glowing eyes on either side of its head. It's standing perfectly still, staring at me. Why is there a sheep in the middle of the Hollow Falls town square? Nobody else seems to be looking at it, but it's standing alone in the side of the road. Its woolly coat is a smokey, grey-black, but its face is as black as coal.
As I watch, I see its jaw move, like it's chewing something, but otherwise, it is perfectly still, staring right at me. I hear the engine of the bus revv, and a car horn from behind us. I flinch at the sound, looking around, then I look back at the sheep. It's still there, staring. As the bus moves, the sheep turns its head to follow the bus - to follow me. I lose it as the oncoming traffic comes the other direction, blocking my view. I sit back in my chair. That was weird, it's like it's eyes were glowing... I've never seen sheep with such red eyes before. I glance out the window again, and everything looks normal. Maybe it was just my imagination.
Or, more likely, it was my mind playing tricks. Four days without sleep...
Doctor Jacobs warned me that I might start hallucinating. Maybe I'm hallucinating sheep? After counting over a thousand of them last night, I must have sheep on the brain. I try to ignore it, but the rest of the ride to school, I can't get it out of my mind. Those staring red eyes, they looked so real. If that was a hallucination, how will I be able to tell what's real, from what isn't?
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