Oftentimes, I find myself in a place of confusion. A place where my own words echo in an empty room, never to be heard. A place where conversation feels as though it never truly existed. A place where companionship, touch, intimacy—and simply living—have quietly vanished.
It takes me back to when I was a small child with an imaginary friend who somehow satisfied the loneliness in my mind. Every thought, every emotion, every moment of every day was spent knowing that if I just said their name, I would suddenly be in the presence of company again.
It sounds silly as an adult, but children possess an imagination that gently carries them through the roughest seasons of life—simply by creating an image, giving it a name, a home, and calling it a very best friend.
Somewhere along the years, I lost my imaginary friend. And in moments like these, I find myself longing to be a child again.
To have a friend in my pocket—to bring joy to my sorrow, ease to my pain, a bit of laughter when the days feel too heavy—feels like a gift I deeply miss. Most of all, I long for the comfort of an unbiased conversation, one that asks nothing and judges nothing.
A simple smile to help me conquer the hardest days. And the greatest comfort of all would be knowing I had a friend in my pocket—one who would never leave my side.
Maybe growing up isn’t about losing imaginary friends—maybe it’s about learning how deeply we still need one.
Life As A PTSD Wife 