One of the struggles I’ve held since childhood is my addictions.  Addictions to stealing, addictions to sugar-primarily Dr. Pepper, Coca Cola and chocolate chip cookies.  But the biggest and hardest to loosen the chains from is my addiction to fantasy. 

And not like sexy fantasy, or dragons and rings and fairies and the like. But the fantasies or even the daydreams in my head, that helped me not have to deal with the realities of my life. 

My imagination was where I ran for cover most often, searching from corner to non-existent corner, looking for a place that would take away the pain.  I’m not even sure I wanted healing…because healing takes time and patience. As a child I had no concept of either. 

I just knew I was hurting and thought my way of fixing it would work. Voila. It would all be fixed. Magical thinking of waving a magical wand over my dismal and confusing little life. 

On holidays I would have these little stories I would make up about my biological dad, and how he would send me gifts. But everyday when I got off the bus, there would be no UPS at my front door.  As the years went by, I traded the idea of a gift for a birthday card. But every year, every holiday, I would walk outside to the mailbox and nothing. 

Soon I would trade those silly childhood fantasies for ones that would save me in my womanhood. I blame Disney.  Cinderella wanting to get out of her life, happening to meet a man who happens to be a prince who happens to fall madly in love with her.  Sign me up. I needed a white knight. 

My addiction to fantasy would soon twist the reality of the addict I fell in love with. He was older, and handsome and had a great job.  He paid attention to me, most of the time.  Was fun, a good kisser.  It had to be him. Because it wasn’t Matthew in 2^nd grade or Walker in 4^th.  It wasn’t a string of crushes in middle school or my very first real love in high school.  All of them transients, I gifted hours of my hidden attentions about how unbeknownst to them, they were meant to be the my ultimate reality. 

And all of my time and energy put into the stories in my head, stole from me the life all around me.  Everyone had to become the enemy if my daydreams were to become more than dreams. Everyone had to play their part to validate my wishes. 

The thing about living a life addicted to the fantasies you create in your head is that, like any addiction, you lose control. Like any Complete control. Like any addiction, the very thing you think will take away the pain just compound the hurt, mashing it up and shaking it down making room for me.  And the addiction to fantasies and the ideas, the wishes and hopes, they mock you and shame you when the choices you make in the real world don’t align with what you’ve convinced yourself will become true. And just like that  You become a failure. 

So you create a new story, take another hit, to keep you sane and going. And when you make terrible choices, there is more shame, and when there is more shame, there is more sense of failure.

And so it goes.

And so it goes 

And so it goes. 

Stories are meant for paper, to share and encourage and make people feel a sense of order and connection. Stories that live in your head, confuse you, disconnect you from the world around you and overwhelm your hope, drowning it breath by breath. 

Like any addiction, it takes time and patience. The two things that have alluded me since childhood. Time to work out that your reality is more than bearable.  That the love you have around you is more than enough.  It takes the patience with yourself, to wrap your arms around acceptance and contentment even when it feels stiff and uncomfortable. 

As you daily shush the narrator of your what should or even could happen, your ears and your heart can begin to see all the good things that are happening. 

Don’t miss it.