All I Hear Is Screaming

All I Hear Is Screaming

My name is Catriona Heath. Everyone calls me Cat. It seems my whole life to this point has been shaped by one defining moment that I cannot even remember. My mother was killed when I was 15 months old. A violent home invasion that ended with my mother being stabbed to death while trying to protect me from thieves that insisted there were more valuables in the house to be stolen. They never caught the assailants. Murderers. They never caught the murderers. Growing up without a mother wasn’t easy. Although, I don’t have an alternative to compare it to. My dad did his best and has always been there for me. To this day, he is the first person I call when I have good news or need advice or just want to laugh. He’s my rock. My grandmother, my mom’s mother, was an amazing woman who showered me with love and attention until the day she died. She and the mass of female cousins I have provided me with more maternal and sisterly support during my childhood than you can imagine. My cousins are more like sisters to me and we’ve remained close as we’ve become adults and ventured onto our own paths.

On the outside. I appear as a relatively normal, functioning adult. And, for the most part, I am. I’ve graduated college and started an entry-level job in a field I’ve always loved: sports marketing. The pay is terrible and the work demanding, but it’s fun and engaging and everything I hoped it would be. So what’s the problem? It’s me, I am the problem. Rather, my nightmare is the problem. A recurring nightmare that is also a dream because my mother is in it. Is it based on a memory? I was so young when my mom was killed that I really can’t tell what it is. My nightmare could be a terrifying memory or a figment of my imagination that’s become indistinguishable from reality. I’ve had this same nightmare for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I go weeks without having it. And sometimes the nightmare comes to me every night for days. It’s always the same though. I’m crying, sobbing, in my crib or maybe it’s a playpen. There are so many tears I can’t see clearly and everything around me is a blur. What I hear is men yelling and my mother screaming. It just seems to get louder and louder. And then suddenly, more clearly, I hear my mother pleading. Screaming and pleading for her life and for mine. I can’t see her, but I hear her clear as day.

“Please no!”

“Leave us alone!”

“Not my daughter, please!”

And then I wake up. Usually in tears. I’m never able to get back to sleep afterward. It’s a recurring nightmare I’ve had my whole life, and I don’t know if it’s based on a real memory or just a nightmare created from the tragedy of losing my mother. And the thing is, I don’t want it to go away. Because if it is real, even a sliver of it, it is the only memory I have of my mother. I will deal with the restless nights and the red eyes and the heart-wrenching pain of this nightmare just so I can hear her voice. All I hear is screaming. It’s the only memory I have of my mother and I’m not even sure if it’s real. All I hear is screaming, but it’s all I have. All I will ever have. The definition of feeling “bittersweet” is experiencing pleasure simultaneously with suffering. That’s what these nightmares are: bittersweet. All I hear is screaming, but it’s her voice. And that makes the suffering bearable.