I have been an only child for the last seventeen years. I'm not anymore, not technically, but my only sibling is five months old and doesn't quite count as a human being yet. When I was little, I was forced to learn to entertain myself. It was me, my brain, and a really enormous backyard, and that was about it. It caused me to really take stock of how I thought of myself, of who I really was. Well, not consciously,because I was six years old and at that age you just don't do that, but I certainly thought about it later.
I never had a true imaginary friend, but I did think to myself all the time. The topics of these conversations ranged all across the spectrum, from school to my parents to the weather to the imaginary world I was busily creating. I think it may have worried my mother a little bit, but she quickly realized that my long debates with my own mind were the least of my problems, and probably the most acceptable.
Though she did once diagnose me with schizophrenia. However, since diagnosing me with brain disorders and disabilities is my mother's favorite hobby, I tend to ignore it.
As a writer, this actually became an incredibly useful skill. "Damn," I will say to myself late at night when I'm sitting in front of a Word document and have been forced to stop typing. "Why isn't this working the way I want it to?"
"Because," I will reply in an aggrieved tone, "they hate you. This is typical. Beat them up."
I will sigh. "I can't. They don't exist. They are people that I made up completely."
"Says you." Sometimes one of my personalities sounds like someone I would like very much to punch in the face, but I would only hurt myself. "It can't be that hard."
About then someone knocks on the door and asks me what in the world is wrong with me and I am forced to reply that I'm being creative and not to worry, but I may possibly short circuit myself. Just as a warning.
~zoe estrin-grele, 17 (brattleboro, vermont)
