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My eyes fall closed as I focus on the only memory that can take my panic away.
A voice.
Deep and husky.
Manly and warm.
Like hot chocolate on a winter night.
"You're safe now, little doll. You're safe with me."
As if by magic, my heartbeat starts to slow down.
"Can you feel my heart, my breathing? Focus on those, little doll. Breathe with me. You're safe."
I remember the way his voice rumbled in his hard chest against my ear as he held me. I remember the faint scent of pine and sandalwood enveloping me and cutting through the smell of soot and ashes.
I can now almost take a full breath.
"Inhale and Exhale. Just like that, little doll."
While I follow the calm, comforting instructions from the deepest recess of my mind, my breath starts to normalize and my limbs unlock, tension leaving my muscles as I recall his voice, the beat of his heart behind my open palm, the way oxygen raised the muscles of his pecs against my face with every intake of air he took as he hugged me to his chest.
The shackles of panic and fear let go of me and, as usual, a part of me is a bit annoyed that I'm feeling better.
No calming technique holds a candle to me remembering him carrying me out of that hell and it doesn't matter that the memory of his face is slightly faded after seven years. Phillip, the man who saved me, is still the only thing that works in bringing me down from a full-blown panic attack every time I have bad dreams, which is pretty much every night I don't take a heavy sleeping pill.
The three therapists I've seen over the years to deal with my trauma and the grief bottled up inside of me, all said the same thing whenever I brought up my displeasure at the fact that he is the only thing that could calm me down so easily: there's no shame in thinking about something that brings me comfort, but I still hate that the only person that can do it is the same that broke my heart during the worst night of my life.
God, I hate this.
I blink and tears roll down my face.
At least I didn't scream myself awake this time.
This way I don't have to deal with pity and concern from anyone.
That's something, right?
I reach for my phone and slide a finger over the screen to wake it up. I bring up the app I use to track my sleep and I sigh when I see the reading.
Ninety minutes of uninterrupted sleep. A personal record considering I didn't take a sleeping aid tonight.
I hate having to rely on medications to battle my pathological insomnia, but at the same time, I know what would happen to me if I were to go days without sleeping and only managed micro-naps here and there. The lack of rest could mean cognitive damage, hallucinations, it could even kill me if I went too long.
I loathe sleeping pills. Whenever I take one, I do go down, but I wake up as tired as ever and I feel sick and groggy and hungover for the next thirty-six hours.
I rather use meditation, essential oils, herbal teas, and supplements than pop tablets, but more often than not, they end up being the only thing that can guarantee I get the required minimum sleep to survive and function normally during the day without risks to my health.
I remember how easy it was to fall asleep before the night of the fire, how I could spend cold mornings lazing up in bed reading and napping. I took sleep for granted for most of my life, and I never knew how much of a bitch insomnia could be.
I've tried virtually everything —or at least everything legal— under the sun to get some shuteye.
My other PTSD symptoms, my panic attacks, and my anxiety are mostly under control unless I have a nightmare about the fire, but my inability to sleep is not as easily put to rest —pun intended.
I have a veritable arsenal of natural remedies in my possession and just as many vitamins and supplements.
I don't start, nor end, my day without melatonin and omega-3, and I carry a special blend of lavender, ylang-ylang, and clary sage essential oils wherever I go.
