A Doorbell Rings at 3am and It's Not the Pizza Guy

My Terrifying Experience and the Truth About PTSD

The doorbell rings.

Am I dreaming?

It rings again. And again. Again. No longer do I believe it’s a creation of my brain from dreamland.

It is happening.

I emerge from deep slumber with a jolt and look at my phone.

3am.

Panic.

Who is at my door, ringing the bell in the middle of the night?

I can’t see. Yes, it’s dark, but even as my eyes adjust to the low-level light, they also narrow in focus, blocking out almost everything. I can’t actually see anything except the one thing in front of me: the floor I find myself standing on.

I clutch my phone.

With the room foggy and me unable to clear my blurry eyes, I am too scared to go to the door, to look through the peephole. I stay near my room even as whoever is there continues to ring the doorbell.

I await his next move (because of course it’s a he): the jangling of the doorknob, the nondescript sounds coming from the porch, waiting for him to try to push his way in.

Does he have a crowbar? Will he be able to force his way in?

Flashback to many years ag…