Maladaptive Daydreaming

The flashing lights grow closer, but the cries of my 6-year-old sister have quieted. To my left, I see the car driver, my brother, lying motionless in the road. Rain hits my legs. No. Blood drips down my body. I can no longer feel my own pulse. Relief washes over me; I won’t have to face the agony of losing you. I think I die. I hope I do. But the light never ignites, only an empty darkness that feels like home. We can’t lose her either I felt the rejuvenating pulse throughout my whole body. I resurface, broken but breathing. Turning onto the gravel driveway, I wipe the tears from my face. Bracing to greet my parents, I plaster on a genuine smile masking my sorrow. Taking my keys out of the ignition, the story crumbles. I made up the car crash simply to pass time. No glass, no screaming. No loss, no love. The pain is just as real, the guilt, the confusion of inventing a nightmare just to escape my mundane routine of school, work, study, sleep. I stare at the grey house in front of me, like it’s a stranger. I wonder if I am the kind of person who needs tragedy just to believe I matter. I never wanted to survive this quiet life, wanted only to stop pretending I’m okay. I walk inside, the beige walls welcome me. I say hello like I haven’t imagined my own eulogy. I eat dinner, talk about school and about work. No one knows that I die every day in a place they can’t see.