Bruised but not quite broken

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I just got my ass kicked by idol fancy and vain imagination in the strangest reaction to a mediocre work of fiction i have ever experienced or witnessed. That’s what i get for putting moderation out on its haunches. Over the last few days i listened to a four-book series in its entirety – 2 days, 17 hours, 14 minutes, and 33 seconds worth of fiction in a 96 hour period. Probably because this particular series plays so directly to my most relied upon and, as it turns out, most cherished alternate universe fantasies – fantasies i have harbored for almost half my life - i let myself get bizarrely entangled in the characters’ relationship and so attached to the family in the story that when it ended i actually felt like someone had died, fighting back tears all day yesterday as though i was being separated from people that i loved and wanted to spend so much more time with and, freakier – like i was ending a relationship with someone who took up my whole heart.

The whole experience was, at least, tempered by the constant reminder of my logic that none of these things i was so pained to part with had actually existed in my life to begin with and the accompanying embarrassment at the violent emotional reaction i was having to losing something someone else imagined. What i realized fairly quickly, though, is that what was really there for me was the pain of letting go of fantasies and imaginings for my own life that could transform in my heart to hopes and wishes when i at the end of my patience with this world, of surrendering things i have so strongly desired, of tearing from my heart my fantastic imaginary future, and more than anything of cutting and sealing off my escape routes.

If i were to describe with any amount of detail what sorts of things i tore from my heart while i sat sobbing for the last 45 minutes, it would be a lot easier, i think , for you to imagine what i mean. But then i would be mortified instead of just really embarrassed and you would all know that not-so-deep inside i’m really still 15 years old. No kidding. But as it stands, you have no proof. Be assured these are not the sort of healthy dreams for the future – graduate school, publication, family life – that we all need to keep moving forward. These are those things that, while innocent enough, cloud one’s ability to accurately assess reality, always holding it to standard that does not and needs not exist.

As i write this i can feel myself craving those fantasies again and i very much feel like an addict who just entered rehab. i, my friends, am a fiction junkie. It even took an overdose to get me here. I have acknowledged now that i can’t go on living my life as though this other life i’ve imagined is a practicable plan B.  Or that any alternate life i imagine is a practicable plan B.  There’s just this and i have to be ok with that. 

So we’re going to see how i cope with a week quit cold turkey. No fiction, no movies, no daydreams, no stories. One week solidly in reality. I am actually, genuinely very nervous. Not quite wracked with anxiety, but seriously on edge. Maybe if, in this vulnerable state, i start to read holy, healthy things my dependency will shift. Maybe i will start to see more fully my reality, not distracted by imaginary options and impossible wishes.  Then i can – slowly and with great moderation – reintroduce certain types of fiction to my life, though i’m not sure i’ll ever be able to safely revisit the books that were my downfall. I’m about to cry again thinking i might not. And i’m having to fight so hard to keep from drifting back to their memory. This is really kind of sick.  And so absurdly difficult.  It’s hard to believe i’m a normal person.

Note: An interesting observation – after listening to more than 65 hours of the same author, i note that the style that appears in this entry mimics the voice of the novels. So don’t blame me. It would seem that i am a style mimic. Does that count as a superpower? Wait. Don’t answer that. Damn.

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