A Reckoning (with my Inner Child)

How many times have we seen a film in which the protagonist wakes in the middle of the night gasping and in a terrified sweat? All they need is a drink or a few pills, or both, to calm their nerves and then, if they are very lucky, they may drift back to sleep. Countless times I’ve watched this scene played out in war films, but in other films too, where the heroine depends on laudanum to get her through the night. In the former circumstances it was called “shell shock” and in the latter, “hysteria” until science knew better. Nowadays, it has a different name: posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and it’s a term that most of us are familiar with.

My own form of madness wakes me in the early hours, compelling me to seek relief in the medicine cabinet, taking more of the prescribed pills than is safe. I don’t want to die by an accidental overdose, but neither could I go on living with my nightly terror. My torment was not diagnosed as PTSD until I reached a point where I could no longer carry the burden of 30 years of symptoms and live what was supposed to be a “normal life” at the same time. Even now, despite a tortuous journey that has taken me from psychologist to psychotherapist and then on to a psychiatrist who would prescribe medication or a combination of medication that might placate my nocturnal demons. Sometimes the medication has worked, but only for a while, just enough time for my demons to figure out a way round it, to outwit the doctors and me. At this point I cross the threshold of despair, when a different strategy is needed, something stronger, to get me through the night.

That something was alcohol, usually spirits. First on my journey came wine, then later whiskey, brandy, and finally I settled on rum as a reliable gateway to the loss of consciousness. Living in Cuba, at that time, rum was widely available and cheap, so it became my constant companion under the cold light of fluorescent bulbs that hummed through the humid night. A glass of rum, taken neat, would quickly fortify the impact of the medication and ease me into a state of unconsciousness within half an hour. Anxious for this to happen, I would hastily gulp back the rum, rise from my rickety chair, slide it under the table and head for my bed without worrying too much about treading on the cockroaches that roamed the corridor between my bedroom and the kitchen.

When I left Cuba, the supply of rum became a lot more expensive, but I it was a price I was willing to pay because the symptoms were terrifying me, undermining my efforts to prop up the façade of a normal woman, leading a normal life. Nightly, I’d sit bolt upright in bed with my mouth dry and my heart pounding. Often there were “pins and needles” sensations in both hands and an outpouring of rage at my demons who seemed to be getting stronger with each passing week. My despair was compounded by shame, shame that I depended on alcohol and drugs/medication to help me through the darkness. Worst of all, were the early morning wakeups, when I’d creep into the kitchen in the half light of dawn reaching for the bottle of rum and the blister pack of tablets. That was when I mixed the two regardless of work commitments later that day. Such was my despair that I was willing to risk losing my job and my life just to make the demons go away.

This went on and on until a confrontation between me and them brought us both to the edge of our existence, crossing a threshold that finally put an end to our toxic relationship. It was early spring and the pale light of dawn was visible to the east through my bedroom window. My eyes were screaming at me for sleep and I could do nothing but stare without seeing, as I had been doing all through the night. There was no alcohol in the house. A few days previously I’d made that decision because I’d woken to find myself lying prostrate on the floor feeling cold and nauseous. That frightened me. If I was going to die by my own hand, I wanted it to be a conscious decision, not an accidental suicide. That left me with no option but to test the new medication on my demons. The night following this resolution, I stomped downstairs in a rage, once again forced to the edge of my existence by chronic insomnia. With the bottle of tablets in my hand, I turned toward the mirror and confronted the demons. “You’ve driven me to this” I screamed. “And this too,” jabbing at the mirror with a knife. Carefully I cut into my wrist until a thin stream of blood trickled down into the sink. Seeing the blood was deliciously satisfying. It was so unexpectedly gratifying to witness the power I held over my own life.

When I looked again at the mirror, there was no demon, just me. The image that stared back was a small, frightened child who pleaded for the warmth of my arms around her. She had lost her mother and wanted to be comforted and reassured it was not her fault that her mother had hanged herself. For years, she had woken me night after night in fear, forcing me to remain awake and alert, in case death should come again. It was only then that I finally understood why insomnia had dogged me. It wasn’t a demon at all. It was the small child guarding against another death. If I were awake, the horror could be avoided. I was my own demon.

With the support and guidance of therapy, in particular, two very good counsellors who specialised in trauma cases, I was able to move away from my protective-destructive behaviour. The end stage of the journey was short but decisive. First, there was a change of medication, and then I was introduced to trauma therapy, specifically Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing (EMDR). Very quickly, within a couple of weeks, I felt that the power of my demons/inner child had weakened. They only return to haunt me on rare occasions when I am suffering from stress, and while I hate those nights, they are a reminder of how far I have come in my life and why it is important to exercise care and compassion with myself and others.