Oh, the childhood games of playhouse and pretend. I occupied long hours of daylight creating imaginary worlds to immerse myself in. I remember disappearing from reality for hours at a time to go live in this better place. It’s not that I lived in a bad place, not at all. But I was raised on a steady diet of Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals and fantasy stories that created an image in my mind of what the world should be, and those images did not match up with what my life was: boring, uninteresting, and unromantic. I wanted a life of exotic boarding schools, princesses, and unbridled potential bursting from my every pore.
So this became a game of mine. I played pretend almost endlessly. At school, I imagined that I could whisper messages into my hands and blow them away to whomever the recipient was. I imagined that I could see the message dancing through the air like animate cartoon creatures in movies. And when I wasn’t reinventing the reality in my life, I would crawl into a cupboard in my bathroom and write stories in my notebooks.
I wonder sometimes whether it was healthy to constantly live inside a reality that I created myself.
It’s been three days since I started writing this blog and since then I’ve had the chance to gather my thoughts a little more about this. I think that the most concise way to summarize my intended thoughts is to say that I play pretend when I am looking up and out to somewhere else. Somewhere better with more adventure, where the grass smells sweeter and the dreamer is always the heroine. I wish that I could immerse myself again in the alternate realities I created for myself as a child; it would definitely make the unpleasant times pass by more quickly.