Dreamatorium

 I had an unexpectedly heavy response to an episode of Community this morning that has been on my mind since I watched it (despite sleeping afterwards, at least a little), mainly because it ties into last night's post about the fear of rejection that comes from being, at least, a little different.

There's an episode of the show called Virtual Systems Analysis, in which Abed (an autistic young man obsessed with film and television, so much so to the fact that he finds he can rarely relate to people outside of film and television references, which is already very me) is forced to have go-getter control freak Annie be his partner for play time in his Dreamatorium (a sort of play room where he and his best friend Troy essentially play pretend in). Annie, annoyed by Abed at the time, readjusts the "engine" of the Dreamatorium in a way that forces Abed to filter things in his fantasy world through empathy instead of his skewed rationalism and objectivism. This causes Abed to have a break down and Annie has to play pretend through a fantasy hospital show to find Abed (who is pretending to be all the other characters in the show). 

This makes total sense in context. Community is amazing.

Eventually, Annie discovers Abed locked in a room, chained to the wall, in the place where Abed "is always eventually placed when people inevitably get tired of him." Annie manages to talk him back to reality by suggesting that he is generally loved unconditionally by his friends, and that sometimes not knowing what is going to happen is actually a good thing (and that she, also a control freak, needs to learn that as much as Abed does).

Of course, I was particularly taken with the above quote: the idea of Abed being locked in a room where people put him when he becomes too much (or not enough) for people in his life. A lonely space in which he exists alone and friendless, and that so much of his efforts to carefully map out and control the world around him is ultimately just out of fear that, in the briefest of seconds in which he doesn't, that world will reject him and not want him in it. That even the friends he has bonded with will eventually shove him into that same space. 

Every time I watch Community, and most TV shows I call my favorites really, I tend to find someone new to relate to strongly and, in many ways, Community is quite possibly the show I relate to the most. This time around, I've mostly been keyed in on Britta (frequently an overlooked character on the series, second possibly only to poor Shirley, who has never received the respect as a character she deserves), and the previous episode had a really sweet moment in which Britta finally learns to accept a man saying something nice to her (and being moved by it in such a way that it made me choke up a little), but that isn't what I'm here to talk about. 

Creator Dan Harmon has stated that he understood that maybe he was autistic or adhd after writing Abed for six years (this was later confirmed once he started therapy after being named during the #MeToo movement-he apologized both publicly and privately to his accuser and sought therapy to better himself-when he was informed of an aspergers diagnosis) and watching the show now makes me wonder (more so) about myself on the subject.

I've suspected for a few years now that I'm on the spectrum, or adhd, or whatever and haven't had the opportunity to find out (on my list of things to do), but this time around watching the show, I see more and more of myself in Abed (this visual representation of the isolation felt upon frequent rejections one can't fully understand is only the most recent) and it makes me wonder more and more about myself.

I had a drematorium of sorts as a child: we called it The Sand, a desert like patch of land at the other end of a small foot path leading from my backyard as a kid. I used to wield broom handles as a sword and pretend to be a knight, doing battle against monsters, or carry a book around as if it was the diary from Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade, guiding me through booby traps and granting wisdom about whatever imaginary religions I could make up as a child. The other kids saw me doing this once and made fun of me, of course, talking about me "talking to the trees" and so I stopped actively playing pretend shortly afterwards, and The Sand eventually became more public knowledge, and my brother and his friends would eventually do drugs out there, or backyard wrestling. Possibly both on at least one occasion. It never bothered me much then.

But even now I frequently still yearn to do that. I have conversations in my head frequently, sometimes out loud if I know I'm alone, not in a schizophrenic way, but in a way that fantasy encounters often help to sort out complicated feelings and ideas. Sometimes it helps me to relate to others better, to imagine their responses to thoughts or questions as an extension of my own. I imagine complicated Dungeons and Dragons adventures that will likely never be played (I've considered writing them down and putting them someplace online like modules, but I don't know anything about that, but I think people do that? Maybe eventually I'll look into it: I honestly believe that now, more than ever, I should release some sort of artistic writing into the world without seeking to make a dime. Art is better when it's freely available), often laying in bed, imagining what characters might do in a situation, what the NPCS would do, what their voices would sound like, what kind of monsters should be faced. I've been obsessing over a very dark, higher level adventure in which proto-elves seal their kingdom off to contain an invasion of Mind Flayers and, in the process, become insane themselves and shit gets real, and it's kinda awesome.

I used to talk to my cat, too, and while she never responded, she always seemed to like to listen. I used to tell her my thoughts on movies sometimes. It didn't feel terribly lonely. 

The pipeline between mental health and creativity is a fascinating complex (and yet obvious) one. As such, in my present space, I found myself considering the Dreamatorium from the perspective of what it meant to Abed instead of a plot device or a strange, eccentric "wacky" concept for a self-identified "weird" character. Yes, it's unusual for a young man (his age was never officially stated, but he seemed to be in the younger half of the group, likely 19 or 20 by season 3) to be playing pretend, even stranger for it to be "real" to him in a very functional way, but it also makes a lot of sense to me now. The idea of creating complex fantasies and stories in order to function, to help him run "simulations" that allow him to understand the people in his life better (even if he maybe takes the wrong lessons from said simulations), suddenly made a whole world of sense to me because, while I no longer physicalize those adventures, I am still that kid in The Sand, imagining things as they might be, or could be, and tuning out a world that, as alarming as it may be sometimes, doesn't make nearly the same amount of sense that fighting dragons does. 

In fact, as the world becomes harsher and life becomes harder (and that's across the board, folks, not just for my weird ass), the more the importance of escapism can be felt. More and more, I'd rather play pretend than deal with the real, and I find myself wondering why, exactly, we can't. Why does adulthood come with the hardness of the real, and not the furthering of the curious mind? While responsible life, and survival at it's core, requires a certain grip on reality (the show rarely discusses how Abed does things like, say, pay his rent, but that's fiction for you), it's sad that it does not include space for a Dreamatorium. 

I want to stop worrying about talking to myself. To imagining things. While I never want to lose touch with reality altogether, because that way lies madness, but I want to stop feeling ashamed of the fantasy. Because often what polite society calls "weird," may just be the most rational way to deal with a world that doesn't make sense, and that's why we need fiction. It's why we need fantasy.