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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SAG_Official on 2025-09-22 07:04:22+00:00.

So I feel a little silly posting this, but I’ve been at my wits end lately and feel I need to tell someone.

For context, I’m a fifty-eight-year-old woman from NC. Two weeks ago, my husband (we’ll call him Don) disappeared while working in the Pisgah National Forest. He’s a senior wildlife biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. He was tracking a family of red wolves when he failed to radio in for the evening, and a search was promptly called. They searched for over a week, and I was told to prepare for the worst. But then, on the tenth day, he was found—at a truck stop in Brevard, no less.

He’d wandered right out of the treeline, apparently, and I guess people must have seen the state of him or whatever because they’d called for an ambulance right after.

Naturally, I was overcome with relief when I got the call and promptly headed over to Mission Hospital in Asheville, finding my husband bedraggled and confused, but very much alive, still clad in the survival blanket the paramedics had wrapped him in when they’d found him. He’d lost twenty pounds, and was suffering from severe hypothermia to the point where nobody on staff could explain how he was still alive. By all accounts, he should have been dead. Furthermore, it was clear that at some point he’d also taken a fall, his body peppered with fine scratches and scuffs, though he couldn’t remember—couldn’t remember anything, in fact, not what happened, nor where he’d been for the better part of two weeks.

The doctors kept him under observation for the next few days before, finally, we were allowed to go home.

Which brings me to the reason for this post…

So a little bit about Don—he’s a complainer. Even from way back when we first started dating—over forty years ago now, if you can believe it—the man has complained about everything; the heat, the cold, if somebody’s running late, if it’s raining. Not in a mean way, of course, and always subtle; a grumble here, side-eye there. Sometimes we’d be out to dinner and I’d catch him gazing down at his food, and we’d share a look, and even though he wouldn’t say anything, I’d know he was annoyed about something. He’s what my Grammie would have referred to as a ‘sourpuss’.

Anyway, I bring this up because ever since we got back, he hasn’t complained a single time. I know that might seem like a small thing to you, but given how much of a prolific whiner he usually is, to say this is out of character for Don is an understatement. Mostly now he just sits in front of the TV, watching rerun after rerun of old sitcoms and TV shows—something he previously would have abhorred doing, figuring the act akin to watching paint dry.

Then, of course, there’s the other thing.

I spoke to his psychiatrist yesterday—a Dr. Weiss. Nice lady. She said it’s not unusual for people to experience memory loss following a traumatic experience, and that his memory would likely return in time. And while I can understand this, that doesn’t account for the fact I get the feeling Don is lying to me—though I cannot for the life of me think why this would be.

I know my husband. Ask any long-married wife, a women’s intuition is never wrong.

Why on earth he would lie about something like that, though, I have no idea (I mean, I get he’s embarrassed, but still—I’m his wife, for Christ’s sake).

I tried talking to him about it, but he’s adamant he doesn’t remember a thing. I want to press him further, but not sure if I should. For instance, I read an article only this morning in Psychology Today which suggested that memory loss after a traumatic event might, in fact, be linked to the brain’s natural inclination to wanting to protect itself.

I don’t know what to do. I feel like ever since he got back, he’s like a completely different person. I suppose that’s to be expected, given what he’s been through and all, but still—am I crazy?

Anyway, any advice on this matter would be greatly appreciated!

Thanks in advance!

—B

Update #1

So before I begin, I just want to say a huge thank you to everybody who replied to my last post. It’s so nice to know I’m not losing my mind! Also, to the woman who said I was being ‘insensitive’ posting about my husband’s ordeal—kindly blow it out your ass.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way—I have updates! First and foremost, we got the last of Don’s bloodwork back from the hospital on Tuesday, and aside from his white blood cell count being a little low (as expected), I’m pleased to announce everything appears normal. So—no infection, no lingering effects—at least, not physically.

For example, I was just getting back from the grocery store yesterday morning when I’d returned to find Don not in the house. There’d been a moment’s blind panic before I eventually found him out back, standing by the treeline that marks the edge of our property (our yard backs onto Pisgah National Forest—which was actually one of the reasons why we had bought it in the first place). He’d just been standing there in the rain, staring over at the treeline, totally still. I’d had to call him a good half a dozen times before he’d finally snapped out of it.

I felt terrible, of course; I was on observation duty, after all, and what with Don being a fully grown man I’d just assumed he could be left for thirty minutes without riddling himself with yet another bout of hypothermia—apparently not! When I asked him what he was doing, he’d just mumbled something about ‘getting some fresh air’ and then gone and sat back on the couch like nothing had happened. I mentioned this to Dr. Weiss later, who seemed concerned but not alarmed, and again assured me that everything was fine.

Another thing—he’s been getting up in the night; something that’s especially strange, as not once in all the years of our marriage can I recall him ever having sleepwalked before (and if he’d done so as a kid, his mother had never mentioned it—something she absolutely would have, God rest her soul).

I have no idea what to make of all this.

A part of me wants to put his behavior down to head trauma, but we’d had a CT scan done back at the hospital, and everything came back clear, so can’t be that.

I know I’m probably coming off like a complete hypochondriac here, and you’re no doubt sick of listening to me ramble. I’m sure I’m just overthinking everything.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Will update again once I get a chance.

Thanks again!

—B

Update #2

I don’t know how to start this post, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.

Something is wrong with my husband.

I followed him last night—one of Don’s great sleepwalking adventures. I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and was just heading back to bed when I’d noticed Don’s bedroom door standing ajar (we sleep in separate rooms on account of Don’s sleep apnoea). I found him stood in the kitchen by the sink, once more with his back to me. For the longest moment I thought he had to be looking out the window at something—a raccoon, perhaps—but then I’d caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and realized what he’d actually been doing, which was, Don had been talking to himself.

Only… that’s not quite right.

His mouth had been moving, yes, but no sound had come out. It reminded me a little of those ventriloquist dolls; the blank, glassy eyes, the forceful way his jaw slapped shut after each mimed word.

And as I’d stood there watching from the hallway, a peculiar idea had struck me.

Practicing, I’d thought. He’s practicing.

Why that thought, exactly, or what it meant, I have no idea. All I can say is that standing there in the dark, for whatever reason, it had felt correct.

This morning, I dragged him over to Dr. Weiss’s office. I’d confronted Don about his behavior over breakfast, only of course he didn’t recall a thing, had seemed genuinely taken aback when I’d informed him about his little midnight escapade. I didn’t tell him about the kitchen part, though; all other things aside, I had spent the remainder of that night trying not to think about it, and had no specific urge to relive it again—and besides, it would only have upset him.

Dr. Weiss tried to play it off as a simple case of sleepwalking, of course—or ‘somnambulism’, as she called it; again, not uncommon following incidents of significant distress. I’m not sure whether she believes this, or if she’s simply trying to ease my mind.

It’s 11:58pm now, and things have been getting worse. I can hear Don moving around out in the hall as I write this, grunting and rutting up against my door like some kind of wild animal.

I have absolutely no idea what to do. I considered briefly calling the police, but what would I tell them? That I’m afraid my husband isn’t my husband anymore?

If someone else has experienced anything similar or if you have some idea of what is going on with Don, please let me know. I am seriously worried.

Will update as soon as I can.

—B

Update #3

Okay, first things first, I think I may owe all of you an apology.

Skimming back over my last post, it’s clear I may have exaggerated a little in my distress.

So remember that whole sleepwalking thing? I spoke to Don’s sister yesterday, and turns out there is in fact a history of sleepwalking on his side of the family, so I guess that explains all the midnight walkabouts.

Also, Don and I talked. Turns out the hospital had him on some kind of crazy anti-anxiety/sleep aid, and one of the side effects is acute parasomnia—th…

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