Nuts

I’m walking a fine line. I’ve always walked this line, but as of late, I find that I’m teetering very dangerously towards crossing it and entering a realm of complete lunacy. Not the quirky, albeit irritating level of insanity I’ve inhabited thus far, but the kind of sheer “psycho-ness” that gets you locked up, that garners disgusted stares from passer-bys, that draws looks of concern from your friends’ faces.

At what point do your fantasies carry you so far away from reality that you can’t get back?

I have a very active imagination. I can spend hours staring into space, creating alternate realities in my mind. I’ve done this since I was a little hormonal kid dreaming about marrying Tom Cruise (pre-jumping-on-couch mental breakdown) and living in a mansion in Hollywood. My ideals have since evolved into something more tangible, but I’ve never gotten out of the habit of doing this. On my commute, before I go to bed, in the shower—any chance I get to let my mind wander, I’m adding details to the little fantasy life I’m living. The problem is that lately, in conversations with friends, I’m pausing longer to separate the truth from the events I’ve dreamt up. I’m tempted to tell people about a new aspect of my life that, on second thought, only took place in my mind. This is actually becoming a pretty frightening problem. Maybe the issue lies in my fantasies transitioning from outlandish dreams into actual possibilities, but the line continues to blur.

Is this how people become compulsive liars? They don’t intentionally tell lies, but their vision of reality is so skewed that they truly believe what they say? But what if I stop scripting this second life for myself? Will the boredom of my actual reality be enough to make me crazy in other, potentially graver, ways?

Whatever it is, soon enough, I’ll slip, and people will be murmuring about that sad, weird chick who lies about her glamorous job and nonexistent boyfriend.

-L