I am sitting on the floor in a soft room. There are no windows and the door is hidden by pillows. I don’t know how I ended up here, but I do know that that what I have done has ruined whatever life I have left.
I remember my first imaginary friend; her name was Jane. I first made her up while I was in the first grade. The other kids made fun of me because of my perceived mental disabilities and none of them wanted to play with me. But Jane was there for me,, and for that, I am grateful.
I recall Gus and Joe, who joined Jane when I was in the fourth grade. By that time, everyone else was into video games, movies, and whatnot. Nobody wanted to hang out with the “retard“, as I was referred to as. Rarely has anyone called me by my actual name. Gus, Joe, and Jane were my only friends.
I made up Don, Luke, and Leah when I was in the sixth grade. I found myself fighting with my parents over my imaginary friends; my mother was angry with me for shutting out other kids and my father tried and failed to get me into various sports teams and clubs. If only they knew the truth about how people were treating me at school, they would understand why I had imaginary friends. I tried to tell them what was going on at school, but they refused to listen to me. They told me many times to give up my imaginary friends or else there would come a day when they would leave me to my fate.
Also, my parents told me that if they found out that I was still talking to my imaginary friends, they would send me to a mental hospital somewhere and I would never be allowed to go home.
But how could they do this to me? I can’t give up my imaginary friends. They had always been there for me when everyone else had rejected me. They helped me celebrate birthdays and Christmases. They listened to my problems and advised me to ignore the other students and get good grades. But my parents were upset because I had shut them out of my life, but they chose to force me to be with people who didn’t like me or ignored my complaints about me being bullied. My imaginary friends were the only friends that really cared about me.
But here’s where things went wrong for me.
My little brother began to ignore me and tell his friends about his “weirdo” sibling. My sister refused to even be in the same room as me. Even my own relatives went out of their way to avoid me. But I had no problem with that, because my imaginary friends were there to comfort me and make my life better.
One day, when I was 15 years old, some person who clearly didn’t like me cornered me in the halls of the high school and began beating me up. No one helped me or defended me; they all laughed and cheered, because according to them, the “retard” was getting what they deserved.
When it was all over, the doctors said that because of the beating, I was just too brain-damaged to function as a citizen of society. My parents, having had warned me repeatedly to give up my imaginary friends and hang out with real people, just gave up on me. I was eventually committed to a mental hospital somewhere outside of town. No one cried for me, not when they rejected me and denied me the basic right to live in society. I believe that they are throwing the mother of all parties somewhere.
So anyway, that’s the sad story of my life, a life that is filled with imaginary friends and a future where I must stay in a room full of pillows, never to see the world again. And if you are reading this story right now and you’re still talking to your imaginary friends, please stop immediately and get some help for your problems. You don’t want to end up like me, a person who made up some imaginary friends just to cope with the harshness of school life and paid for it with my own life.
This story is now finished.
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