When we were young, we were so innocent. We had the ability to imagine anything. Sure, I grew up with body books, knowing where babies actually came from, but that didn’t make me any less of a kid; it just made me more educated.
“They come from the uterus, not your stomach,” said Kindergarten me at school.
From a young age, we were pushed into Young Adult novels that sparked your imagination. We created characters in our minds while we read about the green-eyed boy with the lightning bolt on his forehead (you know the one). For some of us, reading books was like watching movies in our brains and for the lucky ones, reading still gives us that feeling.
Then there were the beings that were made up for us.
During our childhoods, most of us had Santa, the strange magical man that came into your house with presents. If you were raised in Germany, there was St. Nicholas, the guy who left candy in your shoe and Krampus, the half-man/goat who punished you when you were bad. We also had the tiny fairy who came in and collected your teeth. Oh, and let’s not forget the rabbit who hid the eggs that he laid or the Sandman who “helped” kids sleep.
Yet, when we got older, our dreams were smashed. Our parents lied to us, and for what? To help keep our innocence? To keep the magic of childhood alive? I’d assume so. All of the stories were passed down through generations of families, and luckily kids were gullible enough to believe them (me included).
The only things our parents (or sometimes friends) couldn’t take away from us were our imaginary friends if we had them. Ah, our friends. If you had them, they stuck with you through it all. They were your therapists, your secret friends, they went on adventures with you and hopefully kept you out of trouble.
These all sound great right? Why can’t the friends you make in the real world match up to the imaginary? Well, to be honest, while your imagination is what came up with your seemingly life-long friend, there are always downsides. For instance, my imaginary friends weren’t all that friendly. In fact, they weren’t necessarily my friends at all.
Ever since I could remember, there were creepy things in the dark. I would imagine faces between the figurines in my room. There would be figures standing over me, I would see shadows lurking. And none of it was actually there. I told my parents about it, which resulted in two kinds of therapy. The one where you play board games with a psychologist once a week, and the other that draws your blood, talks to you and tells you what meds you could try; a psychiatrist. Some think they’re the same thing, but in my case, they weren’t.
They weren’t just for the spooky things though, they were also for my inability to concentrate, but we might get to that later.
Anyway, the spooky monsters didn’t exactly leave. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s seen them or imagined them, but they’re the reason I can’t watch paranormal or scary movies that are set in houses. The overactive imagination grew with me, hence why being an artist/writer came so easily to me.
I wish I could say I was making all of this up for some kind of metaphor. I could say that the creepy monsters were the inevitable adulthood that I was growing into. I could make them into a meme that has their creepy faces plastered with the words “anxiety,” “bills,” or “heartbreak,” but I won’t.
Instead, I’m going to leave it at this:
Despite the childhood figures getting crushed in my brain by stories told to me by friends or classmates, the monsters still stayed. No one could take them away from me, talk them out of my brain, or prescribe anything for them. The only things that seemed to help were the stuffed animals that are still on my bed. The monsters still didn’t leave though, they were just not as noticeable.
They still show up when I’m in the shower and close my eyes.
They’re still standing outside in the distance of dark windows.
They’re still in my room when my lights or TV aren’t on when I’m asleep.
And yes, they are also under my bed when my leg or arm is hanging off.
While I write this, I realize it’s coming off a bit cliche. Who doesn’t see things in the night or hear things bump around in the dark? I’m sure everyone has at some point. Yet, that’s not the principle of this. I’m writing about it because I’ve yet to talk about it… and because I just met Sully in Supernatural.