Sleep paralysis wakes me up faster than my alarm. My body freezes. My chest feels heavy. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe.
And I know my demon has come again.
I never knew his figure; he was always faceless. He is all black. His smile creeps in, and his voice is familiar, but I would forget it simply, not by choice, but by the force I am unable to decipher.
I met him once when I was a child. I did not know he would visit more often than my felicity. I did not imagine that growing up would mean facing fear, only to watch it with a trembling heart in the end.
Every day feels like a rush, a race I must run or else I will remain stagnant. And I did. My early years in high school weren’t easy—anxiety, pressure, self-hatred, self-doubt, oversensitivity. They all lived within me, a weight I carried every day.
And perhaps, without knowing it, I was the one giving him form.
I bled endlessly to prove I was enough. It felt like I am living in a nature filled with catastrophe, like I am a damsel-in-distress, except I am not a damsel. I am merely a lone teenager, isolated under a ceiling I once thought was my escape. And there, sleeping is my temporary consolation.
When grief takes over, I sleep to forget, even just for a moment. I thought the relief would last, but it didn’t.
The voices in my head were overpowered by the whispers of someone I dreaded to hear. It occurred occasionally, and my fear grew larger each time. Then I saw him—the demon who wrapped his hand around my neck, often sitting on my chest, watching me try to scream with a haunting grin.
I tried to survive, almost every night. And so, it doesn't come by surprise when hallucinations began, but it never settled me—it was frightening.
He was terrifying.
In class, I often dozed off, my head bowing as if sleep were a quiet surrender. The world blurred at the edges while the ceiling fan droned above me. Shadows pooled beneath my eyes, and the color slowly left my lips. I longed to rest, yet feared that once I closed my eyes, I would only wake to him again. I was not ready for another struggle—not with that unseen presence bearing down on my chest.
Then I began developing insomnia. More fears, grief, and burdens followed.
But amidst the horrors, my lola's reminder appeared in my mind as if it was time for me to fight.
"Always pray."
Her words struck me. I realized I had been lost in my own mourning, carrying it as if it were mine alone. I did not seek help. I kept running away, and in doing so, I forgot to call Him.
So I asked God, and there I learned.
Perhaps sleep paralysis is a piece of me. Perhaps it is the fear, the grief, the ache, and the trauma I have yet to release.
Now I understand that whenever the demon breaks through again, the Almighty appears first in my mind.
Maybe my lola’s words were never meant to help me escape.
Maybe they were meant to teach me how to fight.
Not the faceless shadow above me,
but the one within me—
the one I must learn to face.
Written by Jean S. Cais, Insight PH
Jean S. Cais, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
