Imaginary Friends

As a kid, let’s say around five years old, I had an imaginary friend. I remember it. Or, I’ve been told about it so many times that the suggested memory became imprinted on my mind as a true recollection. Either way, the imaginary friend was a little white mouse. He’d scurry out to chat to me whenever no-one was around, then go and hide back behind the TV. I seem to recall his family lived there, or I might have made that up (like I didn’t invent the rest of this madness!). It could be that I used to watch too much Tom and Jerry, that or we had a major mouse infestation.

I don’t think the mouse was around for long. It makes me wonder now if he was a reaction to my parents divorce around that time. Some kind of coping mechanism. If so, he left when he was no-longer needed.

The next time my brain filtered in some random beings to accompany me through life’s traumas was in my teenage years. I used to consider it some ‘imaginary boyfriend’ syndrome, like the girl in Inside Out. Only now I’m not so sure.

It’s okay. Children with imaginary friends are considered adorable and innocent, and most people accept that the mind of a teenager is an incomprehensible mess at best. A universal reaction tends to be, “Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it.” But when it’s an adult with imaginary friends, do they get their own padded cell, a special jacket and a host of drugs…sorry, medication?

A few years ago, I did in-depth internet searches because I was quietly concerned about my mental state. People had literally seen me zone out.

Where did I go?

To a world I much preferred. One I controlled (it’s possible I have a God complex). I liked all the people there, even those that weren’t particularly nice.

It has a name: Maladaptive Daydreaming. A condition where people immerse themselves in daydreaming, consciously opting to go there, forgetting about the stuff going on around them (can be dangerous if you’re crossing a road etc), and then feeling guilt afterwards. You know it’s not ‘normal’, but it’s very compulsive. Apparently linked to ADHD, depression, anxiety and distress.

Okay, that’s the official diagnosis, but what if it’s not? What if it’s just a creative mind with no outlet?

I’ve noticed something during my networking with fellow writers—many have other creative aspects about themselves. I know authors who do the following: build, garden, bake, cook, knit, crochet, sing, write songs, enjoy photography, sew, draw and paint. I’ve done some of these pastimes myself.

Throughout my adult years, I never really wrote anything. At least, if I had, it had been extremely short-lived. So, I wonder now if the time I spent silently inventing plots from every situation in life, and the conversations that babbled in my head over and over until they were ‘perfected’ had a much greater purpose. Could the characters that appeared in my head from nowhere, just want me to write them into some tale?

What’s the rub?

On the downside, I have a real trouble concentrating on something if it doesn’t contain a visual stimulus. I struggle to take in lectures, follow audiobooks and have phone conversations.

The plus, well, when I write I generally get fully developed characters (at least, this has been indicated to me on a few occasions), but I’m also letting everyone, strangers, family and friends alike, into my head, which is very bizarre. For me, writing became a kind of therapy. It put to good use my own craziness.

What I’m trying to say is, “Come in. Come play with my imaginary friends. But be nice. They’re not used to being entertainment for anyone other than me.”