The Caged Imagination
In the darkest depths of my abusive marriage when everything in my life was monitored and controlled - even how and when I slept - I discovered something magical... my imagination.
I had to sleep facing the door so that my body was available for spooning on demand, I wasn't allowed to get up in the night even if I couldn't sleep. If I dared to, I'd receive a text from upstairs before I'd even filled a glass with water: "where you? what doing?" It would spark the dreaded brain chemicals, the stress chemicals, the panic, the guilt and, if I answered, I'd receive another text, "come back to bed".
I'd return like the well-behaved machine I'd become. I'd answer the obligatory questions and explain my behaviour, my insane choice to get up out of bed. Then I'd lie there, in the dark, failing to settle those chemicals and failing, therefore, to sleep. My body was trapped because it had long since become nothing more than an object, an accessory and on nights like those, a body pillow. Robbed of the luxury of simply drifting off, I'd drift off in a different way.
Over the years I built five different houses in my mind. You should know, I'm a self-taught handy woman (being a carpenter/plumber/general contractor was the only solution since hiring outside trades was a waste of money for someone who also happened see household labour as beneath him) so I would design the houses and then revisit them over the years, perfecting finishes and features, adding rooms and luxury touches. I lived happy lives in those houses. My adult children loved those houses and would visit with their children - for whom I'd built incredible playrooms filled with toys and equipment - and each bedroom was tailored to the needs of my children and their future partners. In those houses, I had so many grandchildren that I had to add a Pinterest worthy bunkroom for them.
Every detail was considered and implemented with skill and grace. Except for one thing. Each time I'd visualise living in any of them, I'd encounter a barrier. No matter how hard I tried, I could not transplant my marriage into them. Nope, the bathrooms were mine, the couches were mine, the bed was mine. In the safety of my private mind, the truthful, authentic me rejected even the slightest hint of a partner. In those houses I was single. In those houses I was free. In those houses I could get up in the night for a drink of water.
My imagination wasn't limited to building houses. I also spent sleepless nights plotting my novels and screenplays. Guess what? Everything I was inspired to write featured a female central character who was separating or divorcing or who had been single by choice for a long time. It didn't take a genius to recognise a pattern, maybe a message from my subconscious mind. However, when you are in an abusive situation, the wrong part of your brain is running the show (I could get scientific, I've certainly done the research but just take my word for it) and if you're in panic mode - fight, flight, freeze - for too long - for months, years, decades - you're pretty much fucked in terms of cognitive function. You're being driven purely by survival instincts and so the luxury of analysing things like dreams and fantasies and recognising the recurring themes in those things is impossible.
I'm out now, two plus years out and I'm finally safe. The higher functioning part of my brain is beginning to reignite and every now and then it takes the wheel and I can see it all clearly. I can diagnose and analyse again. I still build imaginary houses but mostly because I had to give away all of my tools when I moved 5000 miles to get away so I'm in carpentry withdrawal. Nowadays I build houses that I want in my future because my future is mine. I don't know what's ahead but these days it's less fantasy, more planning. There's no partner because the thought of that scares the shit out of me (I'm in therapy so fingers crossed... or not) either way, I'm joyously single and happy to remain so. And that whole grandchild thing started. One down, a bunkroom of them to go!
When I was trapped and scared and existing on nerve fumes alone, imagination was my only escape. It was a lifesaver for me, it was hope, it was freedom. It was safe and private and necessary because it maintained my sanity and allowed the true me to thrive somewhere ethereal. Nowadays it's relegated to its proper place in my life. Now it's simply something I tap into for work or when I'm playing with that little cherub I mentioned earlier.
Crucially, I can't help but think that my caged imagination played a big role in my journey to freedom, to safety. I credit it with leaving some pretty obvious breadcrumbs to follow in the dark days of a hostile divorce and so I'd highly recommend it. I advise anyone finding themselves drifting off into a detailed, imaginary life in which they exist as a more authentic, happier version of themselves to take a look, no matter how uncomfortable or dangerous that may feel. Analyse the fuck out of your imagination's machinations and trust the clues planted in your dormant prefrontal cortex while your cavewoman amygdala was running shit - oops, I got a bit scientific after all, must be my PFC taking the wheel, finally.
Photo: Jordan Bauer
