Trazodone Nightmares

3am, My Dear Friend

I start with a banana then

I take the Ambien first.
That’s the rule.
I don’t care what the doctor says—
I don’t take the Trazodone
until the Ambien is warm in my bloodstream,
curling its fingers around the panic
before it can claw its way out.

Because Trazodone alone?
That’s a war I’ve lost too many nights.
I don’t know why
it’s always made me feel like I’m dying.
But it does.
Every time.
My chest tightens,
my thoughts scream,
my skin forgets how to hold me.
It’s been that way since the beginning.
There’s no explanation—
only routine,
only fear,
only the banana afterward
like a lullaby I can chew.

Ambien helps.
It does help.
It smooths the edge,
makes the descent feel a little less
like freefall
and a little more like drifting.
But it never stops the fall completely.

And even when I sleep,
I don’t rest.
I have a night chair now—
not by choice.
It’s the chair I sit in when I wake up
gasping,
sweating,
fighting off a scream
that never left my throat.
Or maybe it did.
Maybe I screamed so loud
my body shut the sound off
just to protect me.

Sometimes the nightmare just stays in my mind,
stuck like a broken tape—
replaying without noise,
without warning.
That’s better, honestly.
It’s sad,
but it’s better.
Because when the scream escapes,
it ruins everything.
When you cry out in the middle of the night
and no one knows how to hold you,
it lingers.
For days.
Weeks.
Sometimes longer.

Still—Trazodone is what “works.”
If you define working as
barely avoiding madness.
If you define success as
passing out instead of breaking down.
It’s not healing.
It’s not peace.
But it’s something
In the sleepless waking hours when the dangerous parts
come alive.

Don’t bring me your lemon balm
or your moon milk.
Don’t hand me Lunesta
with your soft voice and hopeful eyes.
Don’t whisper Seroquel
like salvation.
I gained eighty-eight pounds
and lost myself in that weight.
I still carry it.
I carry all of it.
What worked, what didn’t,
what sedated me
instead of saving me.

Yes, I’ll find another way eventually.
Maybe another tranq, another benzo, a different anti psychotic sedation master piece. Maybe prayers.
Maybe something experimental and kind.
But right now?
Right now it’s Ambien,
then Trazodone,
then banana,
then the chair—
just in case.

Because nothing is worse
than not sleeping.
That’s when the shadows slip in.
That’s when I remember
all the reasons I need to forget.

So I drug myself down,
night after night,
just to survive the part
where I'm supposed to rest.
And maybe one day
I'll wake up healed.

But for now—
I'll settle for waking up at all

If you’ve made it this far—
Please leave a comment if you also struggle with sleep.
Whether it’s insomnia, apnea, or night terrors,
prescriptions that sedate or betray you,
or just the screen that won’t let go—
You’re not alone.
We’re all in this,
half-awake together.