Escapism

Without knowing it, I became a master of escapism at a young age. As soon as I learned how to read, I threw myself into any book I could find, devouring them as soon as I got my hands on them. I read the entire Junie B. Jones series before I finished first grade, and my mom and my grandma quickly found another book series for me to work through–Katie Kazoo Switcheroo.

Like a lot of little kids, I played with Barbie and Bratz dolls a lot when I was growing up. I had the Barbie Dream House, which, compared to the ones out today, looked lame. I still remember the Christmas morning when I opened it–I immediately knew what was inside of that huge box that was nearly a foot taller than me.

I came up with countless storylines for my dolls, some that continued on for years. My imagination was active, and I was writing stories before I even realized what I was doing.

I never thought to call it what it truly was: escaping. Escaping from what, exactly?

Even though I had no idea it was happening, I was struggling with severe anxiety for my entire childhood. We knew that I had separation anxiety, but the scope of what was going on inside my brain wouldn’t be clear for several more years. For a long time, I felt like there was something wrong with me. I didn’t relate to other kids my age, I was different from them. The adults around me would make comments here and there about how sensitive I was and how I needed to push myself to get out of my comfort zone.

The only way I could get away from these ideas was to read and come up with my own stories. I knew from a very young age I wanted to be a writer, and my imagination ran wild—not only with stories for my dolls, but ideas about what I would do when I finally “got over” the things I thought were holding me back.

It’s hard to think about that little girl and how much she was struggling. I wish more than anything that someone had picked up on the signs that there was something going on. I blamed myself for what I saw as flaws in my personality, trying as hard as I could to hide the parts of me that others made me believe were bad or wrong.

I’m very grateful for the books and stories I found growing up, the ones that helped me feel seen and inspired me to become the writer I am today. I really wish I could go back in time and tell that little girl that there was nothing wrong with her, that her sensitivity and creativity made her who she was, and that who she was was who she was meant to be.

If you ever felt like you had to escape into your hobbies, do you still do them? Were they a good outlet for you to feel seen and heard? Try to go back to them this week and take some time to appreciate what they mean to you.

Take care.

—Abbie