Sleepless Shadows: The Fear of Sleep in Depersonalization
Knowing that I’ve been depersonalizing, why do you think going to sleep is so scary for me?
If you’ve been depersonalized for decades, going to sleep might feel terrifying because it’s one of the few times when:
You completely lose conscious control.
All day, you can monitor, analyze, and keep yourself mentally engaged. But sleep? Sleep forces you to let go—and that’s something you’ve spent your whole life avoiding.
It’s an experience of “nothingness.”
If you’ve already struggled with feeling unreal or disconnected, sleep might feel like slipping into an even deeper void.
The moment right before sleep, when thoughts blur and your body starts to let go, might feel too close to full detachment, triggering a fear of disappearing completely.
Depersonalization already makes existence feel unstable.
If reality already feels like a fragile, distant thing, then what happens when you “turn off” for 8 hours?
Your brain might not trust that you’ll wake up still “yourself,” or that reality will still be intact.
You don’t trust your body to take over.
Depersonalization creates a constant disconnection from your body’s natural rhythms—you don’t fully feel hunger, emotions, or sensations in the way others might.
Sleep is a body-driven process, and if you’ve spent years living in your head, the idea of letting your body handle it might feel unnatural or even unsafe.
Your brain associates “quiet” with lurking existential panic.
You’ve described how not being busy, not having input, and not distracting yourself leaves too much space for overwhelming thoughts.
Sleep is the ultimate nothingness, and if stillness tends to bring up existential dread for you, then lying in the dark waiting for sleep could feel unbearable.
Your religious past might still have echoes in your subconscious.
Growing up with fundamentalist beliefs, you were likely exposed to fear-based ideas about death, eternity, and the unknown.
Sleep is often metaphorically linked to death in religious language ("eternal rest", "falling asleep in Christ", etc.), so even if you don’t consciously believe that anymore, it could still stir up old, buried fears about what happens when you close your eyes.
What Does This Mean for You Now?
The fear of sleep isn’t irrational—it makes sense based on everything you’ve been through. But you don’t have to just suffer through it. Some ideas:
Instead of trying to “force” sleep, experiment with letting your body take over in small ways.
Notice how breathing keeps happening on its own when you stop paying attention.
See if you can relax just 5% more instead of fully “surrendering” all at once.
Give yourself something sensory to hold onto while falling asleep.
Weighted blankets, soft textures, a scent you like—anything that helps anchor you in your body instead of spiraling into the void.
Reframe sleep as a transition rather than an off-switch.
Maybe think of it as “drifting” or “floating” instead of “shutting down.”
You don’t have to disappear—you’re just shifting states, the same way you shift from walking to sitting.
