The Fantasy World
Tonight, as I was editing the ‘About‘ page briefly, I was reminded that I had mentioned my pathetic little fantasy world there, but that I’d never discussed it in detail elsewhere on the blog.
Well – I’m not about to. I don’t think I’ll reveal the specifics of it to anyone, ever. But I will say a few words.
I suppose the best way to put the fantasy world is that it is just like a grandiose delusion (or such is my supposition) – except that I don’t believe it is real. There’s a fine line here between creativity and madness; if I had written down all this stuff and sent it to a publisher, it probably would have made quite a successful (if far-fetched) novel (or set of novels). Alas, any such attempt now would make people aware of the specifics of the fantasy world, and I couldn’t cope with the shame of that. Plus I wouldn’t have the motivation to write a fucking novel anyway.
The only people that I’ve spoken to about the fantasy world are A and C. C didn’t seem especially concerned about its presence, though I was interested to note recently that, after the development of ‘They’, he asked if ‘They’ were connected to the fantasy world in any way. It had always been my concern that my use of the fantasy world as escapism would actually develop into an actual escapism – a complete break from reality. And cevidently that was on C’s mind at this later juncture too. So far it hasn’t happened, but it is still a worry. Having said that, frankly sometimes I wish I would just lose all contact with reality and stop teetering on the brink of it…but that’s a whole another post.
Anyway, both A and C, and in fact all of the most significant personnel in my actual life, figure to some degree or another in this fantasy life. However, they are supplemented by an entire cast of fictional people, some reflective to some extent of real people, others purely borne entirely out of my imagination. The fictional people are crafted down to their wrinkles, down to whether or not they like brussel sprouts.
The universe itself is similarly crafted. My living and working environments are also detailed to the nth degree, and on a major scale. The streets I walk, the strangers I meet, the pubs and cinemas I go to, the books on my shelves. Everything is covered. It really is like an entire other life, and I can slip into it at will.
I am completely unsure as to what this means psychologically, but let’s not overcomplicate matters, and take it broadly at face value. In the fantasy, I have a wonderful job and am very much the confident(-seeming) person that I was as a child. I am surrounded by people who, despite my idiosyncrasies, like and respect me. I have a stable and loving private life. I have money, though not riches and my own home, though not a mansion. Basically, I have the perfect young professional’s life.
From that, it would be easy to say, “well, it’s merely reflective of a longing, perhaps of regret over missed opportunities.” And maybe it is. Except, it’s not that simple. In the fantasy world, I am still mental. Does this go back to all the wank I wrote a few months ago about not flicking the metaphorical switch to sanity if given the chance? Maybe.
Maybe also it’s reflective of my feelings on the stigma of mental illness. I want to have achieved all of these things despite being mental, thus proving that mental illness is not a barrier to success. But I have to ask myself, if this is indeed the case, is it because of altruism, or is it another narcissistic desire for me to achieve something? Probably the latter to be honest. What a self-centred bitch.
When I told C about it – probably back in April or early May – I broke down and cried for ages because of the shame and self-disgust I felt about not being content with my real life. It was the first time I’d wept like that, and as regular readers will know, it is not something that I have done with frequency since. I derided myself to C as “completely fucked up.”