Not a Nightmare a Daymare.

Noun: a frightening or unpleasant dream, a terrifying or very unpleasant experience or prospect, or a person, thing, or situation that is very difficult to deal with. Nightmares. They’re like a puppy, they’re always at my heels. Never leaving me alone. I never get a break, it’s every night. They swarm my brain like a flock of crows going after a crumb of bread. I relive every terrifying moment. My brain is a perfect 3D movie theater but in the worst way possible. I can never escape. 

 My brain goes back in time to the Thursday night that occurred two years ago. I thought that night was going to be the best night of my life until it wasn’t. Every night I’ll begin dreaming of something normal, nothing abnormal. Until this black fade takes over and it rewinds my life to the Thursday night when my Dad took me and my two best friends Sofia and Khalil, out to the new playground near our apartment. We were so excited we wanted to plan so many new games and create so many new imaginary lands on this new playground. We had made so many memories on the old one, but we were ready for this upgrade. It was calm, we had all linked arms as we strolled through the quiet street. It was the quietest that street had ever been. Only the sound of the leaves rustling and small animals chattering. Our bodies got more and more excited as we approached the “upgraded” park. We stopped in front of the gate, and disappointment covered our faces. The park remained the same as it did two weeks ago. The only difference was the fresh, and poorly coated paint. Our expectations were well below met. It caused our nine-year-old attitudes to turn sour. The three of us started arguing about anything and everything. We were so mad that the playground wasn’t as crazy and cool as we had hoped so we took the anger out on each other. We fought about what to play, and who each person was. The more detailed our argument got, the more physical and intense it got. Just as I wound up my arm to slap Khalil across his face, my Dad steps in. He grabbed my arm mid-wind up, raised his voice louder than ours, and shouted, “Enough!” The thundering of his deep voice startled us. We went dead silent, he had used his ‘Mad Dad’ voice and we weren’t trying to get in trouble right before we got ice cream. The three of us immediately stood up straight, and in measly voices, we all apologized to one another. We were all too scared to look my Dad in the eyes as we apologized to him. I remember hearing him chuckle under his breath right before he proclaimed that we could still get ice cream. That was if we still behaved. “Since you gremlins can’t decide on what to do nicely, I get to choose,” he said as if he was the president declaring something highly important, “We shall play thy basketball!” We all held in our laughter for as long as possible until it was unbearable. My Dad stood before us with one hand on his hip and the other pointed in the direction of the basketball courts. He looked like a weirdo. We folded over, dying of laughter. It took a minute but we caught our breaths and continued down the sidewalk. We walked to the ice cream shop and ordered. Sofia and Khalil ran to go get the basketball. My Dad and I began to walk to the courts as we ate our ice cream, I took in the brisk, autumn air. It was so peaceful, my Dad took a deep breath and said, “What a wonderful night, c’mon let’s head over to the courts before those two nut heads get back,” I giggled and took his hand as we walked. Everything was great and besides our park conflict, the night was turning out pretty good. At least, it was, our peaceful night quickly turned into music being blasted at an ear-shattering volume. The two of us jumped, startled by this loud disruption. The music came from this jet-black, 2015 Hennessey Mustang that came speeding by. My Dad was shaking his head at the car, and before he could shout at them for their disrespectfulness, the tinted window rolled down and an arm reaches out. My eyes traveled from the arm to the hand and that hand held a gun. My body froze, and I ducked my head as the shot was fired. The shot sent a ringing echo that beat through my head. I didn’t know what the bullet hit until the hand that I held, slipped from my grip. Until I saw my Dad collapse to the ground. I screamed, louder than the music, louder than the sound of the shot. I froze, my body went numb, and my vision blurred as I watched the blood spill from his head. I knelt beside him as my legs gave out.I watched as the ice cream I previously held melted into the blood puddle. As it turned murky brown, I heard Sofia and Khalil screaming but it all sounded muted, my mind couldn’t focus on them. My eyes couldn’t stop looking at the blood trail, my eyes slowly met his. The kind, warmness had left his eyes, they stared back at me looking sad, and empty. I went to hold his hand but it was cold, heavy, and rough, the tears fell quicker. I hear sirens in the background and the yelling of deep voices. But I don’t move or even try to look at them. I didn’t know who it was, but someone gently tugged me away, I resisted. The tug became harsher and stronger and my numb, weak body could fight it. I couldn’t leave him now, he was in pain. He needed me. The unknown figure picked me up and set me on a bench far away. But not far enough away because I could still see them put the white cloth over his head- and every single night that is the moment I wake up, drenched in sweat and tears running down my face. My heart is always beating a million miles per hour. 

Every. Single. Night. The repetition of it drives me insane. It’s causing my mother to worry as well, I doubt she receives any sleep either, waiting for my horrifying screams. Every time I make it out of a nightmare, she's always right there waiting, with a glass of water and reassuring words. It’s rough, on our entire family. My siblings sleep at our aunt’s house because the night here isn’t so peaceful and they are still required to attend school and other such curriculars and need a good night’s sleep. I’ve never experienced any sort of panic attack during the day though, it’s only at night. No one understands why this is happening to me, even two years after the incident happened. The doctors have no clue, and I’ve been to a total of thirteen. Therapists aren’t helpful because it only brings up more and more details of the night. I feel so guilty like I caused everything. And I mean everything. If I wasn’t born my parents wouldn’t have lived in that area. If I wasn’t so pushy about going to see the new park, it wouldn’t have happened. If Sofia, Kahlil, and I didn’t argue about the park we wouldn't have been near the basketball courts. I caused all of this. And now my family can’t even live under the same roof anymore because of me. I don’t know how to fix any of this. I can’t go back in time and undo everything so I have to repair and fix what's in the present. But that itself is extremely difficult. I try not to sleep so the dream doesn’t happen but even if my eyes are closed for a millisecond, it’s like I can’t open them and my brain begins to replay the scenes. I’m going to a new therapist today to try a new tactic. She’s supposedly the best around, yet no one has heard of her. 

I shower, like every other morning, because gallons of dried sweat aren’t a good look. I throw on the biggest hoodie I can find and drag myself out the door. My mom thinks this lady can change everything like she’s some kind of genius who isn’t like all the other therapists. I swear the whole neighborhood waits for me to exit the house to celebrate me over who knows what. It's pity, it’s stupid and I hate it, it’s like paparazzi. Walking fifteen feet takes seven minutes instead of two. When I finally make it to the car, I slam the door shut as loud as possible so my mood is known. Of course, as usual, my mom is chipper and seems to have the most perfect life ever. Her makeup looks as if she didn’t just stay up eighty percent of the night and listen to a child scream for hours. I don’t know how she does it. She passes me a warm, melted cinnamon roll with freshly cut oranges on a plate. She doesn’t say anything, there’s no need. If I don’t eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner I’m practically grounded. She claims that even though I’m going through extremely severe times, I can’t let it bring down my health. So it’s required to eat. I hate food. It only makes me want to puke more, but I have no choice. I slowly nibble at the cinnamon roll as my mom backs out of the driveway. As she turns her head I throw the orange out the window so she doesn’t notice. We arrive at the therapist’s office, and it’s just like the other forty-two offices I’ve seen. We get in the elevator and my mom sighs, “Honey, I really think this lady is different-” Before she can finish her statement I butt in, “Mom. I have been to forty-two therapists! FORTY-TWO! Do you really think she’s going to be any different? No one can help me! I’m a lost cause, Mom!” I watch hope leave her face as she grabs my hand. I pull away and face the opposite direction. This, as usual, pisses her off. Her voice gets stern but then softens as she asks, “Lucía, at least try. Please, one last time.” I nod and the rest of the elevator ride is silent. The doors open and we head down the hallway that smells like old ladies. I scrunch, my nose as we enter her office. Yep, just as I suspected: old, brunette, and glasses with the chain attached. I roll my eyes as she says, “Welcome, welcome! I have been so excited to meet with you.” My mother introduces the two of us as we sit down on the couch. 

“ So I hear you’ve had trouble sleeping, is that right deary?” This only riles me up, apparently, it’s obvious because my mom pinches the outside of my thigh as I respond, “Yeah, it’s been pretty difficult,” I say sternly. She begins to explain how I can prevent it, just like the other therapists. I nod and say we’ve tried all of them. She purses her lips as she says, “I see, well deary do you think you could tell me a little bit about what happened?” My knee starts bouncing and my breath pattern speeds up, “Well, um,” I stutter. I inhale deeply and close my eyes. As I exhale and open my eyes, the room is different. It becomes windy, but there are no windows in her office. I go to turn to my mom, but when I do she’s not there. My heart rate increases and I turn back to where the therapist used to sit. My breaths became shorter and faster. The room began to spin, quicker and quicker until it felt like I was in a hurricane. The room dimmed and as it spun faster and faster it got darker and darker until it was pitch black. I couldn’t see anything but I could still feel it spinning. These random flashes of bright light appeared infrequently. I started screaming, but my voice was silent. I tried to scream louder but still, no sound came from my mouth. I tried pushing my way out, but I only went further and further into this darkness. I sat down and curled up, wrapping my arms around my legs. I began rocking back and forth and I tried to pace my breath. It was useless, I closed my eyes but that only caused flashbacks of the incident. I saw my Dad’s face with empty eyes and blood flowing from his head. I gasped and immediately opened my eyes. The room was still getting faster. I closed my eyes again. This time I saw the Mustang driving by. Again I opened my eyes, gasping again. Between the room and the flashbacks, I couldn’t take it. I screamed with all my effort. I still couldn’t hear my voice. But I kept screaming, I didn’t care. I screamed until I had no scream left to scream. I couldn’t inhale anymore, there was no breath left, and I cried shaking. I tried to close my eyes one more time and again it was a flashback. I saw the white sheet covering his heavy body. I cried and the tears just kept fallin’. I couldn’t stop it, every blink was a moment from that terrible night. I kept rocking back and forth, back and forth. I started whispering please over and over inside my head. The cold sweat began to drip down my face and then my whole body. The sweat got so cold it was burning. I rubbed my arms but nothing worked. It burned and the air around me only got humid and hot. The bright flashes got faster and brighter. 

I thought it would never end until a cold set of hands grabbed my shoulder and held me still. I grabbed the hands terrified but relieved. I dug my nails into their skin, praying they wouldn’t let go. The room still spun at 90 mph and it was still pitch black but there was now at least hope. Finally, the room slowed down, it felt like I could breathe again. I could hear multiple voices, although I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I closed my eyes and this time, no flashbacks. The voices became clearer as the room came into focus. I saw my mom shouting my name each time clearer and clearer. Her face went from blurred to focus, I could blink again, breathe again, and see again. I grabbed my mom and pulled her into the tightest hug ever. I cried, the tears fell and I didn’t care who saw. My Mom picked me up and hurried out of the office. “Thank you but no more therapists for us,” she muttered on our way out. She hugged me and she didn’t let go. “There will be an end honey, I promise. We have to keep fighting for now.” 

This only made me cry harder, knowing this isn’t the end. But, as my momma said, there will be an end.