­Once upon a time, nightmares woke me every night around midnight. Each night, realizing I was in-between worlds, I regained consciousness to the beat of a racing heart. Each time recalling one vague detail: I dreamt someone was in my house. I grew quiet, listening. Nothing.

To ease my mind, and my pulse, I went to every window and door. Locked. Nothing. Everything was fine. I gathered the cats and went back to bed. My mantra was, "You're okay. You are okay. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep."

I was living in a one-bedroom mill house in a tiny North Carolina town, cattycorner to a church and next door to a youth minister. The town's draw was its size. It reminded me of my hometown in Alabama. Moreover, after living in Atlanta, Ga., for six years, the slow tempo was appealing. I found a simple job and tried to make friends.

One night, I fell asleep, still in my work clothes. It had been a long, depressing day. My job wasn't working out, neither was my boyfriend. My neighbors seemed apprehensive and my car was being a pain.

Then, around midnight, I woke standing next to my bed.

"Give me the money," the shadow screamed.

"I don't have any money," I said back, earnest. "If I did I would give it to you."

With one hand I reached for my cell phone, with the other I turned on a lamp. The shadow ran. I ran after him then froze and called the police. The door to my side porch was open.

Seconds. The whole scene happened in a flash. I started to question myself. Was I dreaming again? Did I leave the door unlocked? Did the wind blow it open?

When the officers arrived, I asked, "Do you believe me?"

"Yes, Ma'am, we do. Look." The officer pushed the door open with his pen. I bent to look closer. Muddy tennis shoe treads under the doorknob. It wasn't nothing after all.

I haven't had the dreams since. Actually, I should say my dreams changed.

A few months later, I stood on the balcony of my new big city apartment watching orange and gold leaves make their graceful flight to the browning ground. "Life is short," I thought. "I've got to stop wasting time."

Inside, at my little wooden desk, I made a list of things I wanted to do. I studied it. I knew. All of my life I have wanted to write. I mean, I want to write for a living-- not as a hobby. I knew I had a long way to go, so I started right away.

Today, two and a half years later, I am proud to say some of my writing is in print. Today, almost 14 years after my first day in class, I am 67 days away from graduating from college. Today, I'm not wandering through life, assuming everything will work out fine. Instead, I am brave enough to follow my dreams.

Reflections

That was a scary night, but I know it wasn’t personal. The person who broke into my home was desperate, his actions didn’t have anything to do with me. Were it not for him, though, I might have continued to plug along wishing for something more, hoping for something different, wondering if I could have made it as a writer.>

I think back to those few seconds and realize I was in control, I was so brave – much braver than I realized I was.

I can’t explain the nightmares, or why they stopped after that night. I can guess. And, I can tell you, after waking with a man’s shadow in my bedroom door, I never slept in that house again.

I’m a little numb to the story now, but every time I tell it or write about it I feel tired and I want to cry. That was such a stressful time. However, the more I share this story the more I heal and the more I realize how proud I am of myself for coming such a long way in such a short time.

Life is short, but I’m going to die a college graduate with published clips.

~Rhiannon Bowman