Sleep paralysis occurs when REM sleep overlaps with waking consciousness. The eyes open but the body remains inert, causing the mind to blend visions of dreams with reality. The Japanese call this phenomenon kanashibari, translated into English as “the state of being totally bound, as if constrained by metal chains.” Some who experience it hallucinate the presence of a terrifying spirit holding them down and feel a weight crushing their chest. This was the case for me. 

While living what should have been the ideal life in a little blue house by the sea in Thailand, I experienced sleep paralysis three times in one week. Each time, my eyes flew open in the middle of the night and settled on a dark, heavy figure climbing onto my body. I lay petrified, unable to move or scream. After a few moments, I heard the latch on my front door click and the figure vanished as I regained the ability to move. I bolted out of bed to check the doors and windows the first time it happened, heartbeat thundering inside me, but found no evidence of a break-in. I was alone. 

All my life, I had suffered from vivid nightmares that left me shaken throughout the day, but this was a different beast. I’d never been one to believe in ghosts, but the visions and sensations felt so real that I began to wonder whether my house might truly be haunted. My mental health rapidly unraveled as I struggled to sleep throughout the week. Desperate for help, I asked friends if they had ever been through anything similar. Thailand is a hub for spiritual seekers and the locals I spoke with advised me to visit the Buddhist temple down the road to ask the monks there for an amulet. My property lacked a san phra phum—a small shrine Thai people build outside homes and businesses to protect themselves from demons—and this was surely the problem, they claimed. The foreign residents of the town, largely yogi in nature, advised me to cleanse my chakras and pray for salvation from angels. The man I was dating at the time, a pragmatic atheist from the Midwest, figured this was all bullshit and advised me to see a psychiatrist. “You’re driving yourself crazy.”

He may have been right, but his words weren’t helping. Therapy had done little to snap me out of my issues before that point and I was hesitant to burn more money investigating whatever my problem was. On paper, I was living the dream, paying $300 a month to live like a queen by a tropical beach amongst carefree, beautiful people from around the world. I had escaped the grueling demands of corporate life in America and Japan, my two previous countries of residence, but my mental health struggles had followed me to Thailand. Despite the sparkling image I’d been painting on Facebook with my endless reel of bikini photos, I still felt unbearably anxious, depressed, alone, and confused about where I was heading in life. Paradise had solved nothing. What was I even looking for anymore?

Determined to fix my head, I decided to give meditation a fighting chance to impress me. I had tried it on and off since the age of 11, but had only ever felt frustration in response. There’d been no magical messages or moments of enlightenment. At the same time, I hadn’t taken it very seriously. No more screwing around this time, I told myself. I set a pillow in the middle of my sky-blue tiled floor, surrounded it with candles and crystals (may as well do it right, eh?), and sat.  

At first, there was nothing to note. Only the loud, endless stream of negative thoughts about my future and past. Telepathically, I called in the protection of angels, just as the yoga hippies had advised, though I wasn’t a believer. Despite how silly I felt, it helped. Sensations of warmth, ease, and support washed over me. The tight fist in my stomach unclenched and silence settled in my mind. I had come across a still, shimmering pool of inner peace and after floating there for a while, I asked the spirit world, the universe, my “higher power,” God—anyone who might be listening—for help. 

What’s wrong with me?

The answer that came back to me was clear, simple, and immediate.

“You’ve been living your life for other people.”

All at once, the enlightening “eureka” moment of which meditators speak enveloped my being. In my heart, I’d been putting everyone above and ahead of myself. Visions of friends, teachers, family members, bosses, and boyfriends flashed through my mind. Society. Panicked over their opinions of me and dying to earn their love, I had banished my true self and with it, my authenticity. I didn’t know who I was. My personality was a mask designed to hide my shame, fear, and anger. This may have already been evident to others, but it felt like a profound discovery to me. To assuage the pain plaguing my subconscious, I would have to drop the mask, release my true self from the prison I’d created for her, and help her take the wheel.  

From that day, everything changed.