If you stop abducting me every night, I promise to talk about you on television! — me When the alien abductions started, I had my own TV show. It’s 4:03 a.m. That’s what the clock always says when I return. I’m back in my bed, in my cramped little apartment in West Hollywood. How long have I been gone? No idea. And if my black Lab, Addie, knows anything, she’s not talking. She’s sleeping at the foot of my bed. How can she sleep through all this? The blinding lights! The violent shaking! That horrible low rumbling noise, like an airplane landing in my bedroom! I want to jump out of bed, run down to Sunset Boulevard, and scream, THE ALIENS ARE HERE! THE ALIENS ARE HERE! But this is West Hollywood. Nobody would blink. Besides, I can’t move. Not an arm, not a leg, not a finger. I’m completely paralyzed, watching the room shake, listening to that horrible sound, certain something is coming for me. Sometimes I see them. The Greys. Those big-headed, skinny little aliens with the enormous eyes. Other times, there’s something sitting on my chest. A wolf. A gargoyle. Some horrible creature staring directly into my eyes. I can’t scream. I can’t run. I can’t even wake up my dog. And then…it’s over. I look at the clock, and it’s 4:03 a.m. Same as the next night. And the next. And the next. And the next. Always 4:03 a.m. Weird. Also, I love sleep. I mean, I REALLY love sleep. But now, I started to dread going to bed. I figured if I stayed awake, they couldn’t come for me. I was living my own personal Nightmare on Elm Street, minus Freddy Krueger and his beautiful striped sweater. These experiences didn’t feel like dreams. I could see the lights. Feel the bed shaking. Feel the weight of something pressing against my chest. And it wasn’t just once or twice. It kept happening. I told friends. Boyfriends. My mom. Most of them were interested. Especially my mom, who always wished aliens would abduct her. Eventually, I decided I needed to take matters into my own hands. Or rather, into my own mind. I was going to negotiate with the aliens. At the time, I was hosting a nationally syndicated television game show, BZZZ! Being a professional bubbly person had its advantages, and I figured I might as well use them. Somehow, I’d gotten it into my head that the aliens wanted humans to know they existed. I can’t remember whether the head alien boss told me this or whether I came up with it myself. Either way, I had a proposal. You stop abducting me, and I’ll spread the word. A perfectly reasonable arrangement. I decided to fulfill my end of the bargain on national television. During an episode of BZZZ!, I casually informed a contestant that aliens visited me. The audience laughed. Of course they laughed. I was the wacky game show host! I could’ve announced that I was secretly married to Bigfoot and they would’ve applauded. But I was serious. Serious with a wink and a nod, but still, I said what I said. I’d done my part. Now it was up to The Greys. And… They stopped coming. For years. I slept. I dreamed. I lived my life. Clearly, the alien boss and I had reached an understanding. Until one night, they returned. The same lights. The same shaking. The same terrifying feeling that something was in the room with me. The visits continued on and off throughout my twenties and thirties. Sometimes they’d disappear for years, then show up again without so much as a phone call. Rude. I learned to live with it, although nighttime always carried a little extra dread. I never researched alien abductions (okay, maybe a little). But I really, I didn’t want to think about them any more than necessary. I was afraid that even reading about the subject might somehow invite them back, so I stopped looking for answers. I stopped looking. Until one day, many years later, I came across a podcast. Stuff You Should Know: How Sleep Paralysis Works. I pressed play. Within minutes, I turned it off. Nope. No, thanks. It was too familiar. The paralysis. The presence in the room. The sense of doom. I was convinced that merely listening to the episode might bring the whole thing back. A month passed, and I was just too damn curious; I had to listen. And there it was: Sleep paralysis. A real, documented phenomenon in which a person becomes conscious while their body is still in the temporary state of muscle paralysis associated with REM sleep. Your eyes may be open. Your bedroom looks like your bedroom. You know where you are. But you can’t move. And sometimes your brain throws in a few extras. A shadowy figure. A terrifying presence. A creature sitting on your chest. Or, in my case, an entire extraterrestrial transportation service. I learned that people throughout history had described similar experiences. Depending on the century and culture, the nighttime visitors might be demons, witches, ghosts, or… aliens. The creatures changed. The experience was remarkably similar. Suddenly, decades of terror had an explanation. Wait a minute. So I wasn’t being abducted? I hadn’t traveled to The Greys’ planet and sat on a big rock? I hadn’t communicated telepathically with the head alien?I hadn’t charmed him with my winning personality and negotiated a mutually beneficial agreement? Well, s**t. For years, I’d believed that something supernatural was happening to me. I believed it because I had experienced it. I had seen things. Heard things. Felt things. And now I was learning that my own sleeping brain was capable of producing an experience so convincing that I’d built an entire explanation around it. That was almost as WTF as the aliens. Almost. The good news is that understanding sleep paralysis has changed my relationship with those frightening nighttime moments. I know now that stress, irregular sleep, and sleeping on your back can sometimes make episodes more likely. And knowing what’s happening makes it a whole lot less terrifying. If I find myself caught in that strange place between dreaming and waking, I remind myself that I’m safe. My body will catch up with my brain. And the aliens? They haven’t been around since I learned more about my brain. Maybe they finally got the message. Or maybe I never needed to negotiate with anyone in the first place. Either way, I’m sleeping. And I’ve become my own alien boss. 👽 This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Creators love/need/enjoy support. Oh so many site updates! Have a look. Collect original art. It’s good for you. (and me. win win) This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit anniewood.substack.com/subscribe
