When Your Breath Is Louder Than Words

Your mental health may be off-kilter.

Why are noises shriller at night, and when does your breath seem louder than words? Do our ears take on superpower strength once the lights go out, leaving us with vivid imaginations that make mountains out of molehills? Only the shadows know.

I’m running through the corridor away from something, anything. I can’t see him, but I know he’s there. I feel his breath, he’s that close, but his features are invisible to me. He is grunting — I am panting. Our sound breaks the stillness of the night and is all that matters.

As I sprint through each room after room, shivers run through me. There are no rugs, no furniture. There is no decor to soothe me — only cold, gray cement walls and concrete flooring fit for a dungeon. Yet, I sense an air of familiarity. I’ve been here many times before. So why does this dream keep haunting me?

Throughout the years, I’ve forgotten about this vision. It began as side effects born from medication. At first, the prescribed medicine aided in my recovery. I wasn’t crazy, only mildly sad. The doctor called it “low-grade depression.” He said life didn’t need to be hard.

I was never diagnosed with post-partum depression, but the signs were there. The overwhelm, irritability, crying, and sleeplessness are all signs of having a new baby. Although a year had almost passed, the symptoms were quite strong.

It was only an anti-depressant. Dr. S prescribed it to take the edge off and to increase my quality of living — and he was right. A few weeks went by, and I became a happier wife, better mother, and an all-around content woman. Life became full of colour.

I was fulfilled. With three children, a dog, a beautiful home, and a loving husband, I had everything I ever wanted. Our family was complete — there was nothing to change. So, my husband and I made a joint decision and decided I would go under the knife. The surgeon called it a tubal ligation. We decided no more children. What could go wrong?

“Go off your medication ten days before the surgery,” the anesthesiologist told me. This advice meant there wasn’t time to wean. Nevertheless, I wanted to forge ahead. There wouldn’t be a problem, so I stopped the medicine cold turkey — it turned out he was wrong.

The mattress beneath me disappeared as the world around me swirled. First, my eyes lost their focus. Then my ears became acute as the room fell silent. No television or people were talking — I heard only the voices inside my head.

I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them. Their voices were whispers, unassuming, but their words packed a powerful punch. I strained to see what was around me, to shut out the taunting. I tried to ignore what I knew didn’t exist.

Caught between illusion and reality — I fell in and out of conscious thought. The drugs — or lack thereof — were messing with my mind. As a result, I heard angels. They hid behind clouds present only in my imagination, but I wasn’t dreaming or trying to write a fictional story this time. This time everything was real.

These cherub-like, invisible voice makers were telling me to kill myself. Their message was loud and clear. As I lost my grip on reality, these angels were beginning to make sense.

My ears felt puffy — all external noise blocked from my perception. Instead, inner thoughts consumed me. These thoughts turned into frightening noise.

Suddenly, in my mind, I was running. I didn’t know where I was running to or who I was running from. All I knew was I needed to run away. I needed to get far from the angels — far away from their chants.

But unfortunately, you can only run so far. While our thoughts can move us, the one thing we can never escape is ourselves. Wherever my mind took me, the angels followed. Their whispers became deafening amidst the silence. If I stopped running, they’d catch me.

So, I started screaming and shouting for my husband. Amidst the confusion, I knew I needed help. I didn’t want to kill myself, but the angels’ voices were all-consuming. When my husband arrived, there was a game of tug of war. One that begged me to come back to reality — the other, insistent I end it all.

My ears were screaming. I couldn’t escape the noise. Nothing made any sense.

And then, I surrendered.

The nurses nurtured me. The doctors comforted me — my husband saved me. Then, back home, I took my medication, had the surgery, and fell into a deep depression. The angels came back to taunt me only once during my recovery, never to return.

But the nightmare in the house with the corridors haunted me often. Perhaps a wire in me snapped that night, and insanity stole my capacity to dream peacefully.

I’m chased through the haunted house again. But, this time, there are no angels to taunt or guide me. Instead, there’s just the essence of a man chasing me to do me harm. With each climb, I turn a corner, but there are never doors for me to escape — so I keep running. The things that go bump in the night are the scariest. When you can’t see who’s chasing you, and your breath is louder than words, the feeling is ominous.

Every time I’ve woken from this dream, I’m scared and exhausted. Who is this man that’s hidden in the shadows? Is he real or supernatural? Why does he never show his face?

I’ve struggled with mental health issues all my life, from severe anxiety to extreme phobias — from low-grade depression to manic episodes and mixed states in between.

The increase in severity of my issues came by way of a mistake. Unfortunately, a pharmaceutical error in judgment has plagued my life, but fortunately, today, I am stronger for it.

Many life-saving medications I’ve taken produced significant side effects — vivid dreaming was among the scariest.

The last time I dreamt about the mansion, the corridors, the gray cement walls, and the man chasing me, my co-worker was in it — he was the face. The thing is, when this nightmare started, I hadn’t even met him yet.

“Have you ever met someone for the first time, but in your heart you feel as if you’ve met them before?” — Joanne Kenrick

I believe my colleague is a victim of false identity. He’s a man I’ve slipped into this role in place of blaming the anesthesiologist who wronged me. I’ve never forgiven the man who told me weaning off the medicine was no issue, and through his poor judgement, the nightmares started after that.

Yet still, I’m going to keep an eye on this colleague because he likes talking about all things sinister — to him, it’s in fun, and I believe it is too. But is his presence in my dream fate or pure coincidence?

Perhaps I’ll ask the angels if I ever meet with them again.

Inspired by Ravyne Hawke and the October Monthly Theme from Promptly Written:

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