A Doorbell Rings at 3am and It's Not the Pizza Guy
Faith C. Bergevin MA, RCC
Registered Clinical Counsellor | Essayist | Speaker | Workshop Facilitator
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.
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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...