My Daydreaming School Days
In my youth, I spent a great deal of time daydreaming during school. Instead of paying attention to the teacher, my natural inclination was to doodle discreetly, especially on my math papers. I could be seen staring out the window, drawn to the faraway clouds or a distant airplane. When I was supposed to be reading during quiet time, my imagination took me anywhere except where I was at that moment.
When puberty enveloped my body and brain, I was no longer able or willing to focus on some of the sedentary tasks before me. My hypersensitivity kicked into full gear, and I became incredibly shy, introverted, and self-conscious. Daydreaming was my survival tactic.
I was often punished for my wayward daydreaming and doodling ways, either by being sent to the corner, called out by the teacher in charge, or having my hand slapped or my shoulder pinched. Mind you, this was the late 1960s to early 1970s.
Daydreaming was my escape from personal insecurities and what I perceived as my weakness of character. Because of societal norms, I grew to believe my escapist tendencies were destructive, an embarrassment, and of no value.
Family Life for a Daydreamer
As a teenager, family life in the 1960s and 1970s Midwest was far from my daydreams. As the so-called ideal life was being propagandized via television, magazine advertising, and movies, I sought respite in my daydreaming. The perfect life portrayed in the media was unattainable in our household, as with so many families across the country.
Often, I would escape to a different kind of existence, using imagination as a means to counterbalance my ordinary life. Believing, of course, ordinary was subpar.
My parents came from complex family backgrounds and did not have much stability in their own young lives. They were doing their best with what limited experience they had in the perception of what family security could or should be as young parents.
As maturity and experience eventually reveal, we have little control over much. My parents were no exception.
So, in the name of control, shouting was one vehicle used to handle the chaos in our house. As the oldest, everything I did was a new and often unpleasant experience for my parents. The boundaries were narrow, and defiance was my modus operandi. I chose to be the contrarian, at least in my mind. Defiance was a means to control the narrative, a vicious and irrational cycle—the doomed life of a daydreaming teenager.
Fear as Fuel for my Daydreaming
Money was the root of much of the fear in my household; at least that was my teenage impression. I was always afraid to ask for anything involving money. I feared the rejection and disappointed faces of my parents, knowing they had little to spare. Financial arguments could be heated. I had no idea how they managed to keep us clothed, fed, and housed. I knew little about what it took to survive. I fretted nonetheless.
If I were going to gain any ground, I would have to make my own money. I babysat for my parents’ friends, even though I honestly disliked kids, and at 16, I got my first job at a shoe store.
I daydreamed about changing my ordinary life. Having the ability to buy my own pair of shoes or jeans was huge for me. Simple, but extraordinary freedoms.
My teen radar was in constant motion, inhaling everything that was happening around me, the good and the bad. My fear of which ball was going to drop on our family was an anxiety and weight I carried throughout those seemingly chaotic years.
The unknown fueled the fear. Common and inevitable teen insecurities surrounded me. Constantly feeling as though I was the only person on earth with these revolving, paranoid-like thoughts.
Daydreaming numbed my reality, allowing me to have control over at least some parts of my daily life.
My Daydreaming Space
As the oldest child, my teen years at home were not filled with an abundance of fond memories. Each boundary I attempted to defy was a big deal, and arguments inevitably ensued. I felt that my parents were just a drag and were always against me.
I failed to realize my young parents were concerned for my overall safety and happiness, an all too familiar and unfortunate parent/teenager relationship.
Always feeling trapped, as if in a suffocating cage, I spent most of my time away from my family. I was either in school, because I had to be, or with friends when I was not working. But my favorite time was being secluded in my bedroom.
My room became my sacred place where no one dared enter, especially my parents and siblings. I kept it pristine and obsessively rearranged to make things look and feel different almost every week—my daydream castle in the sky.
My physical environment was always and still is important to me. Something in which I have control. Daydreaming in my safe space allowed me to escape the suffocation I felt daily.
Daydreaming and My Art
Without even realizing it at the time, daydreaming was a way of dulling the perceived realities I was living. For me, that meant personal survival.
While daydreaming, I could transcend myself to other places and situations.
Daydreaming was open-ended, being able to feel, create, see, and let go of whatever came into view.
Daydreaming is my approach to working in the studio and writing. My most meaningful pieces happen when I have no expectations.
No longer do I harbor shameful feelings about daydreaming. Nor do I feel as though my stargazing ways have little value or warrant punishment and shame.
I would happily report back to all my teachers and other adults that my daydreaming was time well spent in my youth. It has become an essential vehicle for exploration and discovery in everything I do.
Image: “Fragments Re-Awakened”, 12" x 9" monotype
I chose this monotype to represent the article because, as fragments of our lives surround and sometimes engulf us, we can choose to awaken our senses to what they mean. Using imagination and altered perspectives can help bring those fragments to a place of understanding of oneself and one's place in the universe.