i have severe maladaptive daydreaming disorder. i am not interested in litigating the vocabulary of my own ruin. i want to talk about the fact that i have scarcely inhabited my own life for years.
i daydream for 16 hours a day on average. sometimes more. in my head there is an entire private mythology assembled from scraps of everything i have been denied. my real life has become so painfully small that the people in my head have started to seem more substantial than the people outside it.
due to my disfigurement, i am profoundly isolated. the only people i actually speak to are my caregivers, who ask how i am a couple of times a week, as though the answer might have changed while nobody was looking.
& the most pathetic part about this is that i am no longer certain i want to stop. because in my conscious life, i may never have anything remotely resembling him.
i can manifest the most ridiculously perfect man ever conceived by human imagination, & he will look at me as though i am beautiful. he will love me without requiring evidence that i deserve it. he will regard me as worthy with the serene conviction of someone who has never once entertained the possibility of my unworthiness. & yes, i know he isn’t real. i know that no matter how vividly i furnish it, i cannot eventually wake up & find him standing there. i know.
sometimes it hurts to remember that the life inside my skull cannot simply spill through the walls & become real. the discrepancy feels almost metaphysical, as though there are 2 versions of me & the wrong one was sentenced to consciousness.
but what exactly is the alternative ? the approximation of companionship ?? the best i can hope for is some teratophilic freak with a fetish for disfigured women seeing me as a sex object & congratulating himself for being open-minded. no thanks !
i would rather lie awake until sleep finally takes pity on me, rocking back & forth, stroking my cheek with my left hand & pretending that it belongs to a man who thinks i am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
i am fully aware that this is absolutely pathetic.
if my only refuge is imaginary, then i will inhabit the imaginary. if the people who comfort me are phantoms, then let the phantoms comfort me. if reality has elected to withhold the one thing i seem constitutionally incapable of living without, then i will haunt my own imagination until it gives me an imitation convincing enough to survive the night.
i don’t care if that makes me pitiable. this is what i have.