I'd had such a peaceful little world of quiet in the claustrophobic room--now I desperately wanted to be elsewhere. Given the impossibility of leaving without at least a lecture, I imagined my current plethora of friends, cultivated from television and books and a few unsuspecting classmates, were in the room with me. The people I allowed into my thoughtful world never stayed long. Days, weeks, some even a few months. I didn't imagine how they entered or escaped, though occasionally I pictured them taking me with them.
No, they just appeared in my colorful world I'd created out of necessity when I was a child to deal with the constant abuse. I hadn't known it was abuse then. I hadn't known there was anything abnormal with imagining people were in the room with me, to the point I actually tricked myself sometimes.
When I was young, the people appear at school, at church, everywhere. They were my constant protectors. Some I walked the halls with or sang hymns with, some I'd seen once and liked their originality or striking normality. The taxi dispatcher I'd seen at an airport, with all the tattoos and piercings still appears at times. His melodramatic outburst at the unreasonable taxi drivers stood out at me, connected with me. I'd seen him maybe five minutes and I still remember what he looked like within the realm of black fuzz all memories have after a while.
When I fall in love with television shows, which isn't very often, I manifest myself in the story, in as many different ways I possibly can think of. Usually I was accompanied by a few friends who occurred in many of my daydreams, continuity among the chaos of my mind. They take care of me and I take care of them.
And even less often, my most hated and most anticipated scenario unfolds--someone in school or church, someone I saw everyday, made an impression on me. Such one that they've entered the sacred and secret little world I've become ashamed of yet addicted too because I know no other way to cope. I worry at times they can actually hear my thoughts-- then I fear even more so for my mental health.
As his voice raised and language fouled, I looked at the ground, and ran through my catalog of protectors in my mind. With a great reluctance I decided the situation was going to only go downhill, and allowed myself to picture the boy on my hockey team with sitting next to me. It was sickly pathetic I tried to budget my daydreams like other girls budget calories or money, simply because I had trouble separating my fantasies from reality, but I still did it anyway.
I'd had such a peaceful little world of quiet in the claustrophobic room--now I desperately wanted to be elsewhere. Given the impossibility of leaving without at least a lecture, I imagined my current plethora of friends, cultivated from television and books and a few unsuspecting classmates, were in the room with me. The people I allowed into my thoughtful world never stayed long. Days, weeks, some even a few months. I didn't imagine how they entered or escaped, though occasionally I pictured them taking me with them.
No, they just appeared in my colorful world I'd created out of necessity when I was a child to deal with the constant abuse. I hadn't known it was abuse then. I hadn't known there was anything abnormal with imagining people were in the room with me, to the point I actually tricked myself sometimes.
When I was young, the people appear at school, at church, everywhere. They were my constant protectors. Some I walked the halls with or sang hymns with, some I'd seen once and liked their originality or striking normality. The taxi dispatcher I'd seen at an airport, with all the tattoos and piercings still appears at times. His melodramatic outburst at the unreasonable taxi drivers stood out at me, connected with me. I'd seen him maybe five minutes and I still remember what he looked like within the realm of black fuzz all memories have after a while.
When I fall in love with television shows, which isn't very often, I manifest myself in the story, in as many different ways I possibly can think of. Usually I was accompanied by a few friends who occurred in many of my daydreams, continuity among the chaos of my mind. They take care of me and I take care of them.
And even less often, my most hated and most anticipated scenario unfolds--someone in school or church, someone I saw every day, made an impression on me. Such one that they've entered the sacred and secret little world I've become ashamed of yet addicted too because I know no other way to cope. I worry at times they can actually hear my thoughts-- then I fear even more so for my mental health.
As his voice raised and language fouled, I looked at the ground, and ran through my catalog of protectors in my mind. With a great reluctance I decided the situation was going to only go downhill, and allowed myself to picture the boy on my hockey team with sitting next to me on the loveseat. It was sickly pathetic I tried to budget my daydreams like other girls budget calories or money, simply because I had trouble separating my fantasies from reality, but I still did it anyway.
I chased away my misgivings, reminding myself he didn't know I was pretending he was here with me. Instead I pictured how warm the outside of my leg would against his, how he'd curl a finger into mine discretely so that my father didn't notice.
I pictured him holding me, soothing me. I focused on what his cologne would smell like, how his chin would feel on my head, his arms around me. It was both the most comforting yet cruel way I passed the time during the delightful lectures I had with my father. Intently imagining each of the senses, the emotions, the picture in my head was certainly distracting, but painful, the way looking at old pictures of my old life was painful. The realization that I'd never have it, I'd never be so content and so loved was the hangover after the blissful drunk.
For now, however, I allowed myself to be drunk with images of happiness, of young love, of hope for a better tomorrow.