i’m an imaginer.
i’m not sure if that’s a word, but i’m using it anyway.
i’m one of those people who imagine scenarios and act it out. i have whispered conversations with myself when i’m alone. i give myself pep talks into the mirror and pretend i’m starring in a movie of my life… that’s one of the reasons i spend so much time in the bathroom, if i’m being honest.
i write fan fiction about my own life. i’ve always loved that about myself. always thought it was normal, until one day, i realized it wasn’t. but whatever. we all need a means of escaping, and this is my mean. i use my fantasy to imagine myself out of awkward situations. i replay my day in my head, or memories, and i imagine a better ending. a could’ve been that makes me feel better. and it works, usually.
recently though, as i grew older, the fantasies stopped.
the imaginings stopped, because i grew bitter with age and started thinking “what’s the point?”.
there is no point. maybe that’s the point.
maybe the point is that it makes you feel better for those few minutes when you’re dragged utterly and wholly into the imaginary world, when the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred, when you, yourself, wholeheartedly believe that the alternate universe you’ve drawn up for yourself is the true one.
that’s what i do.
i pretend a lot to make myself feel better, because if i don’t, then i’m alone, but there are days when not even the imagined can shake me out of my funk.
there are days when i wake up and all i want to do is crawl back under my covers and disappear. where i wish the world would stop moving. there are days when not even my best friends can cheer me up, when the person i want to talk to the most is also a person i don’t want to talk to.
these days terrify me.
they terrify me because then i know that the depression has arrived and all i want is for it to end, but all i’m left with is the terrifying emptiness that comes from thinking what’s the point?
these days, i want to touch you and hold you and hear your voice telling me that it’s OK. i want to be able to push you away and have you pull me closer. i want so many things, but quite simply, you right beside me. not an ocean away. not a lifetime away. not in my memories, but right here.
but you’re not, and i can’t help thinking it’s unfair.
can’t help wondering when i’ll meet you, because i have no idea who you are, and that terrifies me too.
i’m afraid of becoming complacent.
i’m afraid of being lonely.
i’m afraid of marrying the wrong person.
i’m afraid of being me.
because in all my imaginings, i am completely different. my life is different. and i’ve always been the sort of person who brags about how life is awesome and how we should always embrace the moment and make our own happy and what not, but yea, sue me. i’m the world’s biggest hypocrite.
i think i’m alright with that.
admitting is the first step to recovery right?
and lonely is never a good place to be. the thing is… the older i get? the harder it is to be alone. i used to crave solitude because it meant being alone with my thoughts. it meant being able to come up with quirky stories. it meant being able to write. it used to mean a lot of things, but these days, it means emptiness. the loneliness is growing lonely.
truth be told, i’ve spent so much of my life as the rock. spent so much of my life as the bridge, so much of my life as the pillar, i thought i was OK with it. turns out i’m really not. you showed me what it was like to lean on someone. you showed me it was OK to be less than OK. you showed me what it was like to lean upon someone, and it felt good. to have someone to run to. to have someone take care of me for a change, and i loved that. i love that. but i don’t know how to be OK with being alone anymore.
i can’t even imagine myself OK anymore, because in my imaginings, you are always there. a constant. but waking up from the imagined takes an even bigger toll on me. it doesn’t provide an outlet anymore because the high isn’t worth the crash.