When things are really bad, like now, this sort of cloudiness comes over me. I go from insomnia caused by worry and fear to hypersomnia, or over sleeping. It’s nicer in dreams than it is awake. I’d rather be in my head than out of it, and sleep is one of the best excuses for not coming out into the world.

I once had a therapist who thoroughly didn’t get this. She thought that spending so much time in my head might actually be a good thing for someone who wants to write. But it’s the opposite really. Writing takes a kind of defenseless honesty, and this fugue is neither defenseless nor honest. It’s the brain’s reaction to continuing hopelessness. When there is nothing to hope for and no way to change circumstances, my brain fights back by creating perfect worlds inside itself where I can get lost. Perfect worlds don’t make for compelling fiction. There is no conflict. That’s the point. Peace.

In my head is the perfect house. I can tell you every detail, from the worn silver gray of the wood floors to the most useful arrangement of the kitchen cabinets. The house itself is walled off from the rest of the world by the tall bushes in the garden, safe and private and free from the noise and distractions of neighbors and landlords who want their rent money. The phone doesn’t ring with bill collectors. The fridge is actually full of food, something that hasn’t happened since last Thanksgiving. In real life I dream of filling up the fridge, then worry that as soon as I did the power company would shut us off again and a month’s worth of groceries would be lost.

Sometimes I get tired of the house and instead I go adventuring. In my head I have gone to Florence and Greece and Barcelona and Buenos Aires. I become obsessive in packing strategies (not that different from real life actually) but I plan out the perfect travel wardrobe. I imagine being able to stretch out in first class on airplanes and walking among 3000 year old ruins in shoes that never hurt.