I Woke Up When I Was 12 Years Old After A Series Of Nightmares And Out-Of-Body Moments

I “woke up” when I was 12 years old. It’s a strange thing to say, but it feels like the only way to describe it. The years before that were a blur of odd experiences and unsettling occurrences that I can’t quite explain.

As a child, strange things would happen to me. I was constantly sick with fevers and flus, which might explain some of the weirdness, but not all of it. My parents called me a daydreamer, but the experiences felt too vivid, too real to dismiss.

I had a small tube TV in the room next to my bedroom, which I called the “toy room.” It was my sanctuary, filled with an easel, a desk, and a cassette deck. On too many nights, I’d wake up sitting in front of that TV, completely unaware of how I got there. I’d blink at the static flickering on the screen, confused and a little scared. This went on for about a year when I was five or six, and with every morning, the dread of those moments clung to me like a shadow.

Then came the night when I was seven. I suddenly found myself standing in the middle of a field, drenched in a heavy rainstorm, wearing nothing but my underwear. A chill swept through me as I realized how close I was to home. I walked back, shivering and soaked, my heart racing with confusion and fear.

When I knocked on the door, my parents’ shocked faces greeted me, disbelief etched into their features. They always denied it ever happened, insisting they had no memory of that night. Their lack of acknowledgment felt like a betrayal, a silencing of my reality.

I remember knocking on the door, my parents’ shocked faces as they let me in, disbelief written all over them. They always denied it ever happened, even insisting that they had no memory of it.

Around the same time, I started having terrible dreams. I’d wake up groaning and crying, unable to recall what had happened. I genuinely felt like there was something—an entity, perhaps—coming into my room and planting those nightmares in my head. Strangely, they stopped abruptly one day, leaving me with a blank slate where my dreams should have been.

Between the ages of eight and ten, I began experiencing out-of-body moments. I would float away from myself, seeing my life from different viewpoints. Sometimes I’d be looking over my own shoulder, and other times, I would have a bird’s-eye view of my surroundings. It felt surreal and disorienting, and I was terrified of being seen as crazy if I talked about it. So I kept quiet, hoping it would all go away.

From ten to twelve, I became a ghost of sorts. My parents claimed I stopped talking and interacting with people, drifting through life like a specter. I failed my classes, and my teachers began discussing special education placements for me. My parents seemed baffled, saying I was like a robot, silent and emotionless, responding only when spoken to.

Then came the day I turned twelve. I can’t pinpoint why it happened, but it was like a light switched on. I woke up one morning, and everything felt different. No more sickness, no more sleepwalking—or teleporting, I suppose. My head felt clear, and I began to remember things, normal things—friends, crushes, laughter. I started experiencing pre-teen feelings like excitement and anxiety. I was alive again.

Yet, a lingering question haunted me: what had happened to me during those years? What had changed?

Years later, I began to piece together some of the puzzle. I remember the conversations I had with my parents as I re-engaged with them after my awakening.

“Mom, do you remember when I would just stand in my room, staring at the wall?” I asked one evening, probing cautiously.
“I remember you being sick a lot, but I don’t recall anything else,” she replied, her brow furrowing.

“But what about that night in the field?” I pressed, hoping for some sign of recognition.
“Sweetheart, you were just a child. Sometimes kids have wild imaginations,” she said gently, but I could see the flicker of unease in her eyes.

I tried to find my mom’s old diary that I saw in my dream. I searched the house, every corner but still couldn’t find it. I doubted whether the diary was real or not. Then I remembered, I hadn’t looked in my parents’ room. I went into the room while my father was at work and I saw a wooden suitcase under the bed. I opened it, and there was the diary that appeared in my dream.

As I delved deeper into her journal, I uncovered entries that shocked me. She had written about her sadness when she saw me acting strangely, sleepwalking at night, or lost in some kind of trance. One entry stood out: *“I feel like a part of him is missing. He was never the same after the incident. It breaks my heart to see him like this.”*

The more I read, the more the pieces fell into place. I had been kidnapped at the age of six. The traumatic experience had left me with memory loss, a fragmented sense of self, and those bizarre actions that my parents couldn’t explain. I thought back to the moments I felt trapped in my own mind, the episodes of blankness, and the odd out-of-body experiences.

Finally, one evening, I mustered the courage to confront my dad. I found him in the living room, absorbed in the news.

“Dad, we need to talk,” I said, my voice steady yet trembling with urgency.
He looked up from the flickering television, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Sure, what’s on your mind?”

I took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I’ve been thinking about my childhood. About the things I went through. I found Mom’s diary, and it mentions an incident when I was six… something about being different after that.”

His expression darkened, a shadow crossing his face. “I… I thought we had moved past that.”

“Past what?” I pressed, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “The dreams, the episodes? You must remember something.”

He sighed, his eyes haunted. “You were kidnapped, son. They found you six days later, but you were never the same. When we got you back, you were sick—lost in your head—and I was terrified. I thought if we ignored it, if I acted like it hadn’t happened, you might heal.”

“But I didn’t heal! I just drifted for years!” I shouted, desperation clawing at my throat. “Why didn’t you take me to a doctor or a therapist?”

His gaze fell, pain etched into his features. “I didn’t want to burden you with more trauma. I thought time would help, that you’d return to yourself. I didn’t realize how deep it ran.”

Anger and sorrow collided within me. “I was lost! I still feel lost sometimes. Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, tears brimming in his eyes. “I thought I was protecting you, but I see now that I was only keeping you in the dark.”

The conversation shattered the walls I had built around my heart. I felt exposed yet strangely liberated, the weight of my hidden truth spilling out like a torrent. I knew the journey to understanding my past would be fraught with pain, but I felt a flicker of hope. By embracing the truth, I could reclaim my life.

Each entry I read in my mother’s journal became a thread, weaving together the fabric of my identity. I was learning to confront the shadows that had haunted me for so long.

As I pieced together my past, I resolved to no longer be a ghost, fading into obscurity. I was ready to face the darkness, to embrace my reality and forge my path. The memories were mine to hold, and I would no longer allow fear to dictate my existence.

I was awake now, and nothing could put me back to sleep.

This story is based on a true story. All the names in the story have been changed.