I am happy to announce I was invited to post an essay on the role of imagination when children are tormented. Blog: Chapter Break

The role of imagination when children suffer torment

I was seven when the bullying began. Parents, teachers, adults in general did nothing but pontificate: sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you (a lie); bullying is a fact of life and it builds character; welcome to the real world––it only gets tougher; ignore it, they will get bored and move on to someone else.

Oh, how I wished just one of them would have said “kick him in the goodies.” I would have taken the punishment no matter how nasty, if it would have stopped the bullying. So, I escaped the only way I knew how, channeling an imaginary companion and protector. In the jungle with Tarzan, there were no bullies, and I was pretty, no freckles, no pudge. Our time together was the one thing I could control.

I ignored my predator, pretended he wasn’t there, and pretended I wasn’t there either. I was flying through the trees, while Tarzan held me tight, or riding an elephant, trampling a poacher’s camp, or eating our meal al fresco, me preparing it, Tarzan providing the meat.

Even though the musings placed me in an African jungle, I still heard the barbs and felt their sting. I ignore the bully and his entourage for years, believing it was my only recourse. I was the only one who failed to see the implications of my approach. My method of coping, pretending he didn’t exist, endangered his rank on the playground and denied him the validation he sought. Invisible was anathema to him. He could no more stop his assault than I could give in to him. We were forever entwined.

Oddly enough, it was I who became invisible. While distancing him, I was also keeping everyone else at bay. It hadn’t been a conscious choice. School was not safe, home was not safe, nowhere was safe. I fought back the only way I knew how: retreating inwardly, to the one person I could trust––me. I became the great disappearer of both foe and ally and unwittingly, myself. And nothing changed. I became dispirited and lashed out at my siblings. The pent-up rage found its way out; I was becoming a bully, too––a nemesis to my younger siblings.

A different kind of escape was required––a real one. The jungle had served its purpose but had lost its power. I had to flee, get as far away as possible from everyone I knew, and from myself. I went to New Zealand as an exchange student. I’m sure there were other options, but this is the one I chose. Nothing would have changed if I’d stayed locked in my inner world. It was a safe place, at least I thought it was. In the process of writing Chasing Tarzan, I discovered my safehouse had become a cage, like the ones poachers used to trap leopard cubs and elephant babies.

I traveled 7,500 miles to New Zealand, but I was the same person. I arrived guarded and weary, and may have remained so if not for my New Zealand host mother. I fought to stay in my inner fortress, but she saw through my defenses and drew me out. It didn’t happen overnight, there was no epiphany, but bit by bit she revealed the limitations of living in my inner world.

I wrote Chasing Tarzan for those who have also isolated themselves in an internal world that seems safe, but ultimately deprives them of real connection and possibility, and for the angels among us who can help set them free.