For 18 Years I Took Sleeping Pills… Until I Discovered What My Husband Was Doing At Night… SHOCK!

Reclaiming the Light

The asset recovery was complex but ultimately successful. The forensic team tracked down accounts in five different countries, shell companies layered like a twisted onion, and properties bought with my forged signatures.

I got back about $2 million of the $3.5 million stolen, which honestly was more than I’d hoped for. The house had to be sold—too many memories of being drugged in that bedroom.

But I found a lovely condo downtown with excellent security and no medicine cabinet. The other victims and I formed a support group, meeting monthly at a coffee shop that stays open late.

We call ourselves the Insomniacs, which is probably too on the nose, but humor helps. Sandra moved closer and we became unlikely friends, bonding over our shared experience of being married to the same con man.

“At least your wedding photos are better,” she told me once, looking through my album.

“He took me to Vegas.” she said.

“Should have been my first red flag.” she added.

My health recovery was its own journey. 18 years of unnecessary sleeping medication had done a number on my body.

The withdrawal was rough: insomnia—real insomnia this time—shakes, anxiety attacks. But my doctor, a wonderful woman who’d actually testified at the trial about the long-term effects of involuntary sedation, helped me through it.

“Your body is remembering how to regulate itself,” she explained.

“Be patient with yourself.” she encouraged.

The first night I slept naturally, without pills, without fear, without checking three times that my doors were locked, I cried. They were tears of relief, of freedom, of finally being safe in my own skin again.

I’d forgotten what real sleep felt like. The kind where you drift off naturally, dream normally, wake up when your body is ready.

It was magical and ordinary at the same time, which somehow made it even more precious. Six months after Brad’s conviction, I stood in front of a room full of women at our local community center, my hand steady on the podium, my voice clear and strong.

“My name is April Meyer and my husband drugged me for 18 years while he stole my inheritance.” I announced.

The Wakeup Call

The gasps from the audience didn’t faze me anymore. I’d learned that shock was often the first step toward awareness.

I’d started a nonprofit called Wakeup Call, focused on educating people about financial abuse in marriages and the warning signs of coercive control. We offered free financial literacy classes, legal consultation, and most importantly, a safe space for women to ask questions about things that felt off in their relationships without judgment.

In just six months, we’d helped 12 women discover their husbands were hiding assets, forging signatures, or controlling them through medication or other means. The business was funded partially by the recovered assets, but also by a book deal.

Yeah, turns out publishers are very interested in the story of a woman who discovered her husband had been drugging her for two decades. Sleeping Beauty’s Revenge hit the bestseller list in its third week and the movie rights were optioned by a production company that promised to handle the subject with sensitivity.

We’ll see about that, but the option money went straight into the nonprofit. Brad wrote me a letter from prison six months into his sentence.

I’d been expecting it; narcissists can’t help themselves. He blamed me for ruining his life, said I’d misunderstood his intentions, that he’d only been trying to protect me from the stress of finances.

The delusion was so complete it was almost fascinating. I sent the letter to my lawyer, who added it to the file for the civil suit.

Yes, I was suing him for emotional distress. And yes, I was going to win.

Operation Sleeping Beauty

The real plot twist came when I was going through old photos for the book, trying to find images from before the drugging began. In our wedding album, tucked behind a photo of Brad and me cutting the cake, I found a note in his handwriting.

“Phase one complete,” the note said.

“V says: ‘The grandmother’s will is ironclad but patience will pay off. Give it 15 years minimum. Remember the pills are the key to everything.'” it read.

He’d written his plan down and hidden it in our wedding album. The arrogance was breathtaking.

I showed it to Rebecca, who immediately sent it to the prosecutor. It turned out to be evidence in a larger investigation.

Brad and Victoria were part of a network of marriage scammers. At least 20 people across the country were running similar cons.

The FBI ended up calling it Operation Sleeping Beauty, which had a certain poetic justice to it. But here’s the thing about waking up after 18 years: the world looks different when you’re truly conscious.

Colors seem brighter, food tastes better, conversations have more meaning. I started taking art classes, something Brad had always discouraged because it wasn’t practical.

Turns out, I’m actually pretty good with watercolors. Who knew?

I also started dating again very carefully, with a wonderful man named David who jokes that he’s afraid to give me even aspirin for a headache.

“I’ll just get you an ice pack,” he says.

And we both laugh, because sometimes that’s all you can do with trauma: acknowledge it and keep living.

Magnificently Awake

The last time I saw Brad was at his resentencing hearing. Victoria had flipped completely and provided evidence of three more victims, adding years to his sentence.

He looked smaller somehow in his orange jumpsuit, stripped of his expensive suits and easy charm. When he saw me in the gallery, he actually had the nerve to mouth three words.

“I love you.” he mouthed.

I mouthed back:

“I’m awake.”

And I watched his face crumple as he realized that was the worst thing I could say to him. My sleep these days is natural, earned, peaceful.

But sometimes I lie awake by choice, just because I can. I listen to the sounds of the city, feel the soft sheets, watch the shadows dance on the ceiling.

Every moment of consciousness is a gift I gave back to myself, a freedom I fought for, a life I reclaimed. And when morning comes, I make my own tea—chamomile, actually, because I still like the taste—and smile at the sunrise I’m actually awake to see.

The moral of this story isn’t complicated. Trust your instincts.

Question sudden changes in your health or awareness. Never let anyone control your access to your own life.

And for God’s sake, if your spouse insists you need medication to sleep every single night for years on end, get a second opinion. And a third.

And maybe a private investigator while you’re at it. To everyone watching who’s recognized something in my story that resonates with your own life: you’re not crazy.

You’re not overreacting, and it’s not all in your head. Sometimes the person who says they love you the most is the one drugging your tea.

Sometimes the conspiracy is real, and sometimes waking up is the bravest thing you’ll ever do. But here’s what I know now, what 18 years of forced unconsciousness taught me.

Nobody has the right to steal your awareness, your assets, or your agency. Nobody gets to decide when you sleep, what you forget, or how you live.

Your life is yours to be conscious for—every messy, beautiful, complicated minute of it. So wake up, stay awake, and never ever let anyone convince you that unconsciousness is for your own good.

Brad will be eligible for parole in 12 years. I’ll be there at the hearing, wide awake, to remind them why he should serve every single day of his sentence.

Victoria was deported last month after serving two years, banned from ever returning to the United States. And Janet, she’s in minimum security teaching yoga to other inmates, probably planning her next scheme.

But that’s their story now, not mine. Mine is about being 53 years old and finally, fully, magnificently awake.

And let me tell you, the view from here, it’s worth every moment of the fight it took to get here.