“I’d shout out for my husband. Sometimes I’d cry. Once, I kicked him out of bed,” Tina Clark describes the terrors. “But I wasn’t awake. That’s the scariest part — not knowing what’s real.”
Now 50, Tina has spent nearly two decades battling night terrors, a condition typically associated with children. For her, it became a long-term, adult reality: hallucinations, screaming in her sleep, and an overwhelming fear of being attacked in her own home. Despite sleep studies, prescriptions, and alternative therapies, Tina hasn’t found a lasting cure.
These days, the terrors are kept at bay with medication, but it’s not a permanent solution. “If I stop taking the tablets, they come back,” she says.
According to the NHS, they mostly affect children aged 3 to 8 and usually fade with age. But in adults, they’re far less common and significantly less understood. The Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine estimates that just 1–4% of adults experience them, often with more severe symptoms like hallucinations and violent movements.
The story raises questions not just about the condition itself, but also about how the healthcare system responds when symptoms don’t fit the norm.
The Early Signs of a Hidden Disorder
Tina’s disturbed sleep didn’t begin with full-blown night terrors. Growing up in Kent, she remembers her mum being especially anxious at night, bolting doors and asking Tina to sleep beside her when her dad was on night shifts.
“I’d check under the bed and behind the wardrobe. I was scared someone might be hiding.” But night terrors still didn’t surface in childhood.
At 17, she experienced a strange episode: waking up and acting as if she were working in a shoe shop, speaking aloud to imagined customers. “I wasn’t properly awake. I was acting something out,” she says.
In her twenties, fear suddenly intensified. “If my partner had his arm around me, I’d be sweating, terrified. I genuinely thought he was Hannibal Lecter. It felt completely real.”
Triggers began to reveal themselves: alcohol, stress, and above all, a lack of physical security living in a ground-floor flat. But the worst was still to come.
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When Night Becomes Dangerous
By her early thirties, Tina’s sleep had become something to fear. “I’d wake up sweating, screaming, completely convinced someone was in the room trying to kill me,” she says. The episodes grew more frequent and disturbing over time.
In one, a faceless black figure loomed beside her bed. In another, someone was trying to stab her with a shard from the mirror beside her. “I was crying, shaking, but still asleep. If my husband tried to calm me down, it made things worse. I’d lash out without realising.”
For Tina, the line between reality and sleep blurred. She’d often wake up unsure whether what happened was a dream, a terror, or real. The episodes came at least three times a week, sometimes more.
She once saw a man she believed to be Chinese crouched on her bedroom shelf — “bent round and staring at me, like he was stuffed into it.” It wasn’t until later that she found out a Chinese couple used to live in the house and were remembered by neighbours for arguing often.
The psychological toll was immense. “I was scared to go to bed. I didn’t want to sleep,” she says. She would nap in the afternoon to avoid nighttime sleep. But those naps worsened her sleep pattern further.
Medication, Misdiagnosis and Missed Support
Tina’s breaking point came in her early 40s. Years of sleeplessness had taken their toll on her, her marriage, and her job. “My husband couldn’t sleep. He was at his wits’ end,” she says.
“When I finally went to the GP, they tried to give him sleeping tablets first, not me.” She was eventually prescribed Clonazepam, a drug used for seizures and panic disorders. It helped her sleep, but it only masked the problem.
Tina was referred to a specialist sleep clinic at Guy’s Hospital and underwent an overnight sleep study. She was told not to take her medication for a few nights beforehand — the terrors returned instantly.
The study diagnosed her with NREM Parasomnia, a condition in which individuals partially awaken during non-rapid eye movement (NREM) sleep — the deepest stage of sleep — and may perform complex actions or vocalise while remaining unconscious. She was also diagnosed with Restless Legs Syndrome, a condition involving an uncontrollable urge to move the legs.
Tina wasn’t convinced. “I immediately felt like I’d been falsely diagnosed,” she says.
Parasomnias often overlap with other disorders, like PTSD or sleep apnoea, making misdiagnosis common. “They told me to keep taking the medication and come back every six months. It felt like a cycle with no solution.”
She explored other routes: improving her diet, cutting out alcohol, acupuncture, and gym classes. CBT was offered, but only via self-referral. “They didn’t guide me to any support. The clinic was useless,” she says. “It felt like pills or nothing.”
In 2021, her GP switched her to Mirtazapine, an antidepressant, but the side effects hit quickly. “I felt emotional and delirious.” She was signed off work for a month with stress and eventually returned to Clonazepam. Any time she tried to stop, including last summer, the terrors returned immediately.
“It’s Like No One Knows What to Do With You”
Now on a steady 0.75mg dose of Clonazepam, Tina can sleep through the night — but it comes at a cost. “I don’t like that I have to rely on a tablet every day to sleep,” she says. “You’d think after years, I wouldn’t have to take it anymore.”
The long-term impact has been significant. Tina once held a managerial position, but the exhaustion eventually forced her to step down and leave her job. She took a whole year off to recover, but it didn’t help. “I just wasn’t functioning properly.”
Tina wishes there were more open conversations around adult parasomnias — and more understanding within the medical system. “It’s like no one knows what to do with you,” she says. “I wasn’t offered any support. Just a prescription and a goodbye.”
Her story is not an isolated case. Fewer than 5% of adults are affected by parasomnias, and yet diagnosis, treatment, and support remain inconsistent and underfunded. Tina is one of many navigating a disorder that still carries the stigma of being a “childhood phase.”
Her experience is a call for change — for better awareness, broader medical training, and more comprehensive support for adults whose nightmares don’t end with childhood.
