The Definition of Irony?

It’s a strange occurrence when a person recalls visceral childhood experiences. And, no matter how much time may have passed, it doesn’t seem a single bit less real.

Last night, while drifting off to sleep, I couldn’t quite quiet my mind. It was racing. I couldn’t maintain a single thought to its end. Which, in and of itself, was weird. Weird, aside from trying to form thoughts while falling asleep, because I wasn’t necessarily busy or, for that matter, challenged, yesterday. But what was so significant was when I closed my eyes, I was taken back to my childhood and, more specifically, to that of a recurring nightmare.

Strange thing is, it wasn’t any “image,” say, that reminded me of such a visceral and terrifying experience. It was a simple feeling. Anxiousness brought on by darkness…

As a child—prior to the age of 10(?)—I often experienced “night terrors.” Which weren’t necessarily brought on by anything. Or, I’m assuming such was the case, because the “nightmare” was roughly the same each time. Which was characterized, more often than not, by emotion, rather than any “visual sense.”

Situations differed. But the “scenery” was invariably the same. Everything would be oversized. Or, better still, I was so small. Which wouldn’t be so bad, per se, but the resulting feeling of insignificance and helplessness was so overwhelming. Which inevitably led to me waking up in instant hysterics. And, what’s worse is, I couldn’t get out of my room. Both, my bedroom door and window, weren’t there. Or, in my panic, I was convinced they were completely walled over. I was trapped.

And for some reason, the exact same anxious feelings of insignificance consumed me, as I lay, last night, awake in bed. And, in many ways, I was as helpless as a young boy scrambling, in the dark, for a way out of a bedroom.

Ironic, given how a life has unfolded, eh?