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

Originally published on February 21, 2023 on my Substack publication Princess and the Pea, Survivor Edition.

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 ago at our first house in Fernwood, when the drug-addled man tried to break into our house as I held onto my toddler.

Or…

Did he find me?

Still blurry-eyed, I try to call 9-1-1. Nothing happens. My heart is racing. The screen says no network connection.

Why is my phone not working?

Airplane mode. Swipe up. Click plane button.

I use my fingerprint to unlock the phone; it doesn’t work.

I am shaking.

Try again, says my phone.

Then Enter Passcode: Your passcode is required to enable Touch ID.

What the hell is my passcode?

I pace the hallway outside my bedroom. I don’t go to the front door to check because at this late hour it can only be something bad.

I tremble as I type my passcode, then type the numbers we all know.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a voice says on my phone. “Fire or police?”

“P-police?”

“For what area?”

I tell her.

“One moment, please?”

“Hello, 9-1-1, how can I help?”

The words stumble out to the operator that someone won’t stop ringing the bell at my front door. I’m terrified.

“Do you live with anyone?”

“No, I’m alone,” I reply, shakily. “I mean, my daughter is sometimes with me but she’s not tonight.”

“What’s your address?”

I tell her.

She goes silent a moment and asks again if there’s anyone there.

“No,” I say. “I’m alone.”

At this point I look out the front window.

Finally, by talking to someone, someone there for me, - someone trained to help me - I have the courage to look, to open my eyes. And I see what I couldn’t see before.

“There’s a police car outside,” I say. “I see police.”

“What’s your address?” she asks again.

My mind, beginning to come online again, wonders why she’s asked twice where I live.

“Are you sure there’s not anyone there?” the operator says.

“Why are the police here?” I blurt out.

To read the rest of the story and the relevance it has for PTSD recovery, go here to my Substack publication...