I call her Cara. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. In fact, I can’t imagine my life without her. So if anyone thinks it’s shameful or immature of me to have an imaginary friend, I won’t pay them any mind. I’m grateful that so far I haven’t had to deal with many disapprovers – apart from my own dad, that is. But I’m an only child, after all, and she’s been the sister that I never had.
“Aislinn,” she says. “I don’t know about you, but I wish it were Saturday. I’m not really in the mood for class.”
We’re on our way to the university to attend our spring semester course in psychology. Cara’s seated opposite me in the backseat of the car, playing with the locks of her hair. Her personality is very stark, independent, and thoughtful. I take a lot of pride in that, since after all she’s an extension of my mind. However, lately her mood has been starting to annoy me. She was very little help with this week’s homework. I was the one who did most of the work, while she loafed around. Normally we would be quite enthusiastic in our discussions of the class, but recently she’s seemed bored of it. I still want to become a psychologist, but I can’t tell if she feels the same.
But for goodness sake, we’re twenty! It’s no time to have second thoughts.
No matter. Ultimately, in the end, it’s my decisions that count. There was no way we were missing class today only to make up for it later.
The school is coming into sight now. We pull up to the curb beside a walkway and the grassy terrace in front of building 4 – the classroom building for the College of Social Sciences. Every time I see this building, I think about it as just a shell, or mask, concealing the ebb and flow of ideas. It’s a tank of thought, a necessary confinement for the minds of young people like us to be shaped and to exchange views with each other. I am thankful for it, but also thankful it’s temporary. I’ll be glad when we are released into the world where our minds can expand and we can learn from real-life experiences. Classes give us a much needed head start, but the real learning comes later.
As we exit the car, we thank the driver, and then make our way to the front doors.
“We have all of our books, right?” I ask.
“It’s all in the bag,” says Cara. She is carrying a backpack over her shoulders.
“And our notebooks?”
“Yep.”
As we come to the double doors, Cara enters through the left, but just as I open the right, another student comes barging through and rudely pushes past me in a hurry. “Hey, watch it!” I exclaim, but she gives me no response as she hurtles down the hall. I scowl and shake my head, while Cara shows me her humor with a smirk.
I haven’t made any lasting friends here. Most of the other students probably think I’m a bit odd. I don’t dare tell anyone about Cara, since it would only exasperate the circumstances. I’ll only talk to her when nobody else is around. Otherwise, I stay fairly quiet. It’s better that I keep a low profile, or else by someone’s persuasive lies I might lose Cara forever.
Our classroom is 102B, a large room on the first floor, where the twelve rows of chairs only slightly elevate toward the back, and a huge whiteboard takes up most of the front wall. Not all the chairs in the room are used up, so Cara never has a problem finding her own seat. And we’ve never had a situation where someone tried to sit on her unawares.
On the board is written “PSY 234,” and under that the title of today’s class: “Denial of Self-worth – Cause or Symptom?”
Dr. Daskalos is standing still beside her desk, with her hands folded and a subtle smile on her face. She delays the start of her lecture until everyone’s found their seat.
“We’ve been discussing the many-faceted topic of depression – its root causes as well as its effects. What we will be exploring today may well be a cause, but it may also be a symptom. The way you view your human worth has much to say about the state of your mind. I hope by the end of our lecture today that you will agree with me that it may be both, by circular reasoning, a cause of depression and a symptom of it.”
After I write the lecture’s title in my notebook, I glance over at Cara, who’s seated a few chairs away in the same row, and she’s also bent down writing something. A second later she looks over at me and makes a face, which I take to mean she may actually have the slightest scrap of interest in today’s subject.
I suppose that would mean I do.
Dr. Daskalos continues: “Let us first explore the ways in which questioning one’s self-worth could be a cause. Do any of you have in mind a possible reason someone might doubt their value as a human being?”
A curious question. I’m sure we’ve all thought about it at one time or another. This could start some intriguing discussions.
I raise my hand to respond, but so do two others, and she points to a boy in the second row.
“Because they’re treated poorly by others.”
“Very good. Yes; a lack of love, compassion, or respect from others. What about you, Jennifer?” she asks the other girl who raised her hand.
“I was just thinking – something like Evolution or the Big Bang Theory might make you question yourself. The thought of these things even scares me sometimes.”
“Okay, and how do you suppose that?” Dr. Daskalos asks.
“Because rather than believing we were made by a divine Being for a purpose, these theories suggest we are accidental causes worth no more than the atoms that make up our bodies.”
“Excellent! Yes. That will be part of a lecture I have planned for us next week about the relation between depression and religious beliefs. And James, your suggestion may be contributed by some to a Christian view of the world as fallen.”
Suddenly I think my response is probably not as good. I was going to say how having no siblings and few friends may be a cause – but then, that might reflect poorly on me. Others would pick up that I’m speaking of myself…
I do appreciate what James said. People like me often feel rejected, sometimes even unnoticed by others.
Just another reason Cara exists.
Another student raises her hand, and the professor calls on her.
“What about broken families?”
“Absolutely – an uncaring father, a divorce, a one-parent home, hatred among siblings. The family is an institution of love, security, and edification. Someone may realize their worth through their family. So a defect in it can be incredibly damaging.”
What a concept! Where did Dr. Daskalos get such an idea?
Most of the day’s class is spent dealing with how viewing self-worth is a cause, and only for a short bit at the end do we deal with it as a symptom. Depression itself, the professor explains, awakens a host of negativity rooted deep down in our systems – when thoughts and emotions otherwise kept suppressed rise to the surface.
“I have to say,” says Cara after class as we head into the hall, “that was definitely one of the more interesting lectures we’ve had. And I was a little worried about coming today. After all, what can be more depressing than the topic of depression?”
She’s right. It’s a subject we all try to avoid. I can’t help but wonder – is there a part of me that struggles with my perception of my own worth? Have I created Cara as a method to fight some pain that I have? Aislinn the dreamer – dreaming her way out of her pain…
I think about that deeply on our ride back home.
Although we hardly speak a word to each other, Cara is always there, in the next seat over, scribbling something in her notebook. Why I imagine her to be as contemplative as I am, I’ll never know.
My home is a regular townhouse in a cookie-cutter neighborhood. It’s a smaller two-story, with my room on the second, and my window is just to the right of the center of the house. That’s where Cara and I spend most of our time. Our driver pulls into the driveway, and Cara stuffs her notebook into the backpack. As we exit, I see that Mom’s car is parked in the open garage, but Dad’s is not. He must still be out at work.
That’s fine by me. I haven’t exactly been feeling all that close to Dad lately. He’s been acting distant and will hardly ever talk to or even acknowledge me. I get the feeling he’s been growing less and less supportive of my having Cara around.
The only other people who really know about Cara are my parents, but only Mom has been accommodating. Mom at least accepts it and will even address her directly sometimes when I tell her she’s in the room. She doesn’t do it in a mocking or comical way either. She’s never told me off for her, and that makes me happy.
When we enter the kitchen, Mom calls out from the living room: “Oh, you’re home. Have you eaten dinner?”
We both respond together: “Yes.”
Mom appears from around the corner. She’s clothed in a cute spring dress, white, with a few flowers, as bright as her smile. She’s slightly taller than either of us. Funny enough, her auburn brown hair is closer to Cara’s than mine. I’ve inherited my dad’s hair. It’s only proper I imagine Cara to resemble the only other woman in my life I really love.
Mom’s eyes seem to fall on both of us. “How was class today?”
“It was fine,” I answer.
“Very thought-provoking,” says Cara.
Mom nods in acknowledgement. “You must be nearing the end of the semester now.”
She looks from me to Cara, and with a twinkling smile says to her, “I’m sure you’ll be glad of that as well.”
Cara nods and smiles in return.
Then Mom turns back to me. “You’ll both be studying hard for the exams, then.” Despite the harrowing prospect of exams, the way she addresses both of us together lightens my mood.
“Yeah, we’ve got a lot to do,” says Cara.
“Better get started,” I follow up. “Thanks, Mom!”
And with that we scuttle up the stairs to our room.
While not quite big enough to fit a second bed, at least with a whole frame, the room’s sizeable enough. We did convince Dad and Mom to buy me a futon for my birthday (really our birthday), so we decided ever since to trade off every week sleeping on the bed and on the futon, swapping every Sunday night. There’s a desk in the corner, but just one. Usually I let Cara use it when we’re studying, while I just lounge on the bed.
Cara throws the backpack down on the foot of the mattress and sighs. I watch her with my arms folded as she plops down on the bed and spreads her arms out, and I wonder what I might be feeling to have her act in such a way.
“So what were you writing on the ride back?”
“Oh, just some thoughts,” she replies.
I bend my head forward and raise my eyebrows, my face asking for more.
“I just feel like – like things are going to have to change, and soon.”
“Well, yeah. The semester’s almost over. We’ll be thinking about internships, jobs, moving out.”
It’s an interesting concept – how a part of me, of my emotions, intellect, and other facets of my mind are projected through her.
“I mean, I’m thinking about me – about us,” she goes on. “I can’t get out of my head there’s something missing – like, in my life.”
Was I really feeling this way?
I sit down on the chair by the desk, facing the bed. “You’re just letting psychology class get to your head.”
“Maybe. But you’d agree, wouldn’t you? Some of these causes of depression we discussed seem unsettlingly close to home. I kind of want to ask Dr. Daskalos a little more about her own beliefs.”
“You mean her religious beliefs?”
“Yes.”
So, there must be some radical speculation rooted deep down. Of course, this is not our first psychology class. I would have expected someone after an introductory course, like the one we had on personality types last year, to presumably psychoanalyze herself or her friends. These advanced courses must be the more affecting. I understand we’re all searching for some truth and meaning in our lives. I mean, when everyone comes up with their own truth, doesn’t that destroy all meaning? That would have been a good addition to our class discussion today – I should have thought of that! But now, I should be more careful or my thoughts will bring me to places I don’t want to be right now. Anyhow, this must be what Cara’s on about.
I don’t press the matter, although it worries me.
“How about we don’t study yet, and we go for a bike ride. What do you say?”
“Sounds good to me!” she says.
Maybe getting some fresh evening air will clear up our heads.
It was a good idea. As soon as we come out to the garage and breathe in the air, I know a good ride will lighten our spirits.
We both got our bikes from a thrift market a couple years ago. Of course, I bought mine, and it wouldn’t have been fair to leave Cara without one. We probably rode around the neighborhood fifty times since then.
When she hops on hers, the pedals get stuck straight off because the chain is loose.
“Why is it that I always have problems with mine, and you never do?”
I just laugh and say I don’t know. With some adjustment to the gears she gets it working just fine.
The evening could not be prettier. Our neighborhood is a ways from any major highway, so it’s relatively quiet. It’s not the richest or most pristine of communities, but it doesn’t have to be. There are plenty of trees, oaks and sycamores, and unkempt plots full of wild bushes. In almost every front yard we pass as we glide along are gardens of flowers, hedges and little fruit trees, everything in full bloom. All of this harvest a smell so sublime and liberating that I could stay here forever and not get over it. Somehow the evening after the sun sets enhances the scents in the air and supplies a perfectly cool temperature. I would have to say that this is my favorite season of the year.
As I look behind me, Cara is melodiously wheeling along, zigzagging a little, with her nose in the air and a contented smile, all the while keeping her distance from me. It always amazes me, the way she takes in everything with joy, the same way I do. She loves nature just as much, and she’ll point out peculiar aspects before I notice them. She’s very much like a dream, where you can’t really control what happens, nor do you know what will happen – and yet it’s all in your head.
We spend all of an hour out and about, until our legs are tired and we find our way back home.
“Oh, no.” I point out that Dad’s car is parked in the driveway. But Cara doesn’t look as disturbed by the fact.
After we store the bikes back in the garage, we approach the door and I slowly turn the knob. Putting my ear to the open crack, I say, “Mom and Dad are chatting in the kitchen. We can probably sneak upstairs.” So we enter in silently and tip-toe to the stairway. When we get to our room, after a few pauses because of the creaky steps and floor, we leave the door slightly ajar. Cara seems more curious than I am about what our parents are talking about. I wonder… does she want me to be more curious about it? She waits by the door with her head inclined, trying to listen in.
“What are you doing?” I ask her.
“I just want to know what they’re saying.” After another moment, she whispers, “It’s something about Dad coming home late every night.”
I wait, hearing only muffled voices.
“I think they might be talking about you.” Of course, I don’t hear exactly what they’re saying. Could I just be imagining what she’s hearing?
Suddenly their words get louder and clearer.
Mom’s voice projects distinctly enough for me to understand: “I don’t want her to live without a father!”
Cara turns to look at me. There is more said in her expression than a year’s worth of conversation. Most prominently is the transparent sadness about her eyes, probably due to the fact that my parents are arguing.
I speak out of the sheer need to break the awkward moment between us: “Don’t look at me that way. Mom and Dad have to work out their own issues. You have to get used to the fact that Dad will never accept you.”
Her look only intensifies. Then she shakes her head. “Sometimes I think you’re a bad influence.”
I chuckle a little at the remark. “On you, you mean?” The absurdity of this growing independence on her part is the strangest thing. “I get it. You’re concerned. But listen, it’s not my fault Dad and I don’t have a good relationship.”
Cara looks down at the floor. “You’re right. It’s mine.”
“What?” I spew with incredulity.
Then she turns toward the door. “I’m going to fix it. I want to talk with him.”
My eyes turn inward in stupefaction. Has she gone mad? Have I? “But you can’t!” I blurt, knowing full well Dad wouldn’t see or hear her.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” In anger she swings the door open, while I stand still, a little stunned.
If she wants to think that she can do what she wants, what’s the use in me trying to stop her? It’s not as if she can really do anything anyway.
As she leaves, she pauses in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Aislinn. I have to do this.” She turns her head a little toward me but does not look me in the eyes.
As her footsteps sound down the stairs, I bend my head back and heave a long sigh.
What is going on with me today? I suppose it would make sense that Cara is meant to offer some contrast in my life – to be my guiding conscience. It has been helpful, I must admit, to have her around to warn me of harmful things I might otherwise have overlooked. But her behavior tonight has been over-the-top. I must be doing something seriously wrong if my conscience is acting in such an abrasive manner. Perhaps her going downstairs is indication she wants me to have a talk with Dad… to make things right… to ask forgiveness.
But forgiveness for what?
And what did she mean when she said I was a bad influence?
The hot blood of frustration rushes to my head, and I kick the bed frame next to me and then plop down on the mattress. This causes the backpack that Cara was carrying earlier to fall off the side and onto the floor. The notebook that she was writing in slips out half-way.
Curious, I reach down and grab it. Opening to the last couple of pages that are written on, which I assume she penned earlier today, I start to read:
“There’s a reason I like psychology – and there’s a reason I’m afraid of it. There are so many dark paths that can be found – dark recesses of the mind that can be uncovered, and if not guided by discernment, one can lose herself – or remain lost.”
Is she thinking about me? Is she concerned? It would certainly make sense.
I skip ahead a little:
“I want to talk to my professor some more. She seems to be knowledgeable…” – There we go again… thinking she can actually speak with real people – “There’s something about the universe, about my mind, that I want to understand.”
The way she speaks of herself…
My eyes are drawn instinctively to my name in the very last paragraph:
“But what to do about Aislinn… I can’t seem to speak plainly around her – for that matter, to think clearly. I’ve enjoyed her company and friendship. I don’t really want to lose it. But in the end I can’t say she’s been the most helpful. It’s as if I almost feel lonelier when she’s around. There are realities and joys that I see other people have, and I want them too. Maybe Dad is right… he’s been right all along. Maybe she isn’t good for me. Losing her will hurt, I know, but it might be more harmful to keep her around. I may need to find a way to get her out of my head.”
No! It can’t be.
My eyes bulge as I look up from the pages, then they start to water. The tingling of terror courses through my body and out onto my skin. I turn white as a sheet and start to tremble. Images of all that we’ve been through since our childhood flash through my head. And my heart – is my heart even beating? I don’t feel it. In a few moments I stop feeling anything at all. The notebook falls through my hands and hits the floor. The tips of my fingers start to fade, like a ghost choosing no longer to be seen. My head gets fuzzy and my memories dissolve. Before I vanish completely, one final thought carries me away.
I was the imaginary friend.