Dear Mom,

Over the weekend we watched a movie about imaginary friends, and it sparked some truly magical conversations at dinner.

We asked each other, what if we had imaginary friends? 

I could really visualize Scotland’s friend. Long curly hair that is orange and teal with a love of dance and music. Her name is Ireland (though it later changed to Start Dust). She is a witch with a sparkly hat, and she loves to draw. Her favorite musical instrument is the flute, and they’ll have a wonderfully magical drum and flute band. Oh, and she loves to listen to Halloween music. 

Now, I know Idris already has some imaginary friends, but he got kind of shy when we asked, and conveniently forgot every detail about them, so he designed a new one. A tiger of course. Though later he turned into a squirrel. The squirrel friend likes to climb high in the trees just like Idris does. 

I needed no time to think about mine. Without any contemplation. I could see her. 

She has crazy medusa-like purple curls. She wears four pairs of sunglasses at the same time and has a tutu over a dress. Wears the BEST sneakers that’s she’s drawn all over and loves to listen to music and dance. She’s also a mediocre artist and has paint splatter all over her dress and isn’t the slightest bit bothered by the stains.

At one point Scotland turned to me and said, “Mom! Your imaginary friend is just like me!” Hm. I thought about that for a moment. Was I designing an imaginary friend based on my daughter who happens to be one of my very best friends as is? 

But no. I’m certain I designed my imaginary friend based on who I needed when I was a kid. I needed the unique, quirky, eccentric, friend who was not scared to put herself out there in the world, not scared to make a fool of herself, not scared of anything. I needed the bravest. The silliest. The most secure of all. I needed the person by my side who could have the power to bring out those parts of myself. Isn’t that the point of an imaginary friend? Someone to fill the spaces within ourselves that aren’t quite empty but rather need to be encouraged. As if they are waking up those parts within us.

I think back to me as a kid. Me with my two different colored socks every single day to match my outfits, which later turned into two different nail polish colors in junior high. Me with my desire to be loud and silly only to be stifled by a shyness and fear that dampened my light for most of those years. What I was missing for all of my childhood was a counterpart. I never found my equally eccentric friend who could allow those parts of me to shine. Or perhaps I did but I pushed that kid away in fear of being labeled as the weird kid. I needed someone to tell me it was OK to be me. But I don’t think I had an imaginary friend. I was alone with my stuffed animals.

I do think you were that person for me at times. I know my memory isn’t great, but I don’t remember you ever having an issue with my obsession with matching. You never had an issue with my crazy outfits and my full-on love affair with the Grateful Dead when I was 10. You even let me turn my closet into a blacklight shrine.

Remember my two years of wearing costumes to high school? You were a part of that. You took me to Party City and helped me fill an entire cart of hats so I could create outfits around the many themes.

I know there were moments you weren’t in love with my habits. You didn’t love me going to school in a pair of satin leopard print pajama pants from Victoria’s Secret in the middle of the Chicago winter. Did you mind when I died my hair purple? I know Dad was upset but I don’t remember you caring at all. You couldn’t stand when I covered my face with layers of caked on makeup, but you loved picking out big and bright and crazy junk jewelry for me to wear. You even seemed to be OK enough with my phase of listening to Phish and going to concerts with other teenaged wannabe Deadheads at locations that required driving to another state and sleeping in a tent. I’m not saying that’s a choice I’d make for my own kids, but I will say I was pretty happy during those times. Maybe it was the magic mushrooms and ecstasy, but I’d like to believe it was the freedom to dance in the middle of a field with other people like me. 

I think you knew the truth. That deep down, beneath the colors and the fabrics and the sparkles and the hats. Beneath the dyed hair and the makeup and the glitter. Beneath the tie dye and hemp and terrible music. I was really lonely. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know my place in the world. I was lost and directionless and deeply unhappy in many ways. But I don’t think I knew it at the time. So maybe you didn’t either? I don’t know. What I do know is that my dressing up and acting crazy and being more fun on the outside did help me on the inside. It was my way to put myself out there. My way to be brave. My way to take control of my world.

It’s funny because for so long I worried about being seen as that weird kid but later, my costumes and crazy behavior in high school helped me. I smiled more and I put smiles on people’s faces. Maybe they were laughing at me, but I didn’t mind. And it was all kind of foolproof because those were the years when I was drunk the majority of the time, so people didn’t necessarily think I was a freak, they just rightly thought I was ‘on something’. Regardless, those moments did bring me joy.

In college, my freak flag was crumpled up and thrown into a public trashcan on campus. I stopped listening to the music I loved because it was too odd for my new group of friends. I stopped dressing the way I felt most comfortable because it was too strange for the academic setting. I lost a part of my entire personality in those years. 

But it wasn’t completely gone. I have a picture of me with star earrings and a fedora and a pair of costume sunglasses that was taken in the year between undergrad and grad school. The year when I was single and finally had a group of friends who let me be me entirely. But I was also so broken by then. So dependent on substances to keep me afloat. Perhaps the crazy outfits at that point were all for show. Maybe that was me trying too hard to appear happy. Maybe that was me hiding behind a façade of joyful colors.

The more I think back on those years, it’s starting to feel like maybe what was truly the death of that part of me was adulthood. Getting jobs where I had to dress a certain way. Having to conduct myself in a particular manner. There aren’t a lot of places in this world where people have the freedom to just be peculiar. 

This is one of my biggest fears for my kids. Take Idris for example. That kid is very loyal to his oddities. In all the best ways. He walks around like a velociraptor in public and has no inhibitions around it. His happy place is on all fours growling like a tiger. He is completely secure in his desire to be an animal. And I know the world will squash that out of him. I know it because it happens to all of us. At one point or another we are all told we need to grow up. To stop acting like a child.

This brings me back to the imaginary friend concept. In the movie we watched the theme was that adults still need their imaginary friends. I would add to that and say adults still need their childlike behavior. Adults still need to be silly and eccentric and unconcerned with how others view them. I should be able to leave my apartment and walk through the world however I feel the most comfortable. And I want that for my own kids. I want them to grow up to never stop being unique. To never stop being silly. To never stop being children.  

You did that for me. You allowed me to not feel bad by being a little odd. And though I probably needed a lot more to fix me, your ability to love me because of my weirdness and not despite it really did help.

Mom? How about you? Did you have an imaginary friend? Did you need one? If I had to guess, you had an imaginary friend. And this is how I imagine her.

She has very red hair. Naturally red but also too red to be natural. It’s very long hair and also very manageable. She wears a simple red leotard with a tutu and ballet slippers. Later she changes her clothes and wears bell bottoms and a Temptations T-shirt. She never stops dancing. Ever. Always insists that you get up and dance with her. She laughs the most ridiculous laugh, but you don’t think it’s ridiculous at all. You think it’s beautiful. You think it’s contagious. She believes women should be equal to men. No. Women are superior to men. She thinks our world is broken but she’s not depressed about it. She’s determined to fix the cracks and bring the best out in people. She’s never sad but understands sadness. She gives the world’s best hugs and also the world’s best advice. She is a true friend and also a mentor. A sister. A daughter. A mother. She is you. She is me. She is Scotland. 

I think, in many ways, Scotland was right when she said my imaginary friend sounded like her. In many ways, both of my kids have filled the void in me that an imaginary friend would have filled when I was a kid. They bring out that part of me that I have lost as an adult into the open again. They encourage me to be silly and weird. They want me to have dance parties with them each night and to laugh at all their ridiculous jokes. They want me to not care how I look or what people think of me. They want me to be honest and real and true. They want me to be like them. And I know, even if they can’t find the words yet, that they want me to be me. For me and for them.

It’s easy to believe that we all need a little magic in our lives to get through the tough times or to simply get through life. But I’m learning that there is magic in us already and that magic is brought out onto the surface when we’re around the right people. You brought magic out in me and now my kids are following in your footsteps. It’s my turn now to remember what it feels like to be a kid so I can bring the magic out in them. And I sure hope, wherever you are now, that you feel the magic too.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel