I have always existed within the confines of my own imagination.
It was my safety net. An escape that took place in the world of books. In the stories that I told to myself in the dark. Of the thoughts I placed inside other people's heads.
But imagination can be a nasty thing. It sank it's teeth into me before I could even talk. Before I could walk or run or tell it no.
My imagination was my safety, but it was also the nightmares and the anxiety and mean thoughts I placed inside other people's heads.
Now I'm nearly 20. My imagination was suppose to outgrow me. I was suppose to exist in the same world as everybody else, but my imagination is having too much fun.
It screams and I shrink back into myself. It's only quiet when I'm writing. When I'm giving it what it wants.
Showing it all the ways that it has beaten me down, taken control and bent me to it's will.
I'm told that I can fight it. With healthy coping mechanisms and long chats with my therapist and the medication that tells me that it's time to be happy again.
But my trauma didn't create my imagination and the chemical imbalance in my brain didn't create it.
It was me. The only part of me that I tended to. The only part of me I cared for. The only part of me that exists.
If I fight it I would be destroying the only thing that keeps me here. The only thing that gives me purpose. That gives me motivation. That gives me a reason to keep writing. To keep moving. To keep living.
I only exist within the confines of my own imagination.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Saggisticaas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
