People come in and out.  Not really there.  Only in my head.  With personality, plot, conversation.  You’ll hear me talking to myself.  Low mutters.  You won’t be able to make out what I’m saying, but you’ll hear me.  Talking to myself.  But really, I’m talking to them.  I know they aren’t real.  I know they aren’t there.  I can control them until my story gets away from me.  But then I can reset.  I can decide I don’t like where my inner plot is going and I can turn it on its heels.  And it’s been called different things.  My first mental health hospital stay, based off what little I would say, they called it Schizotypal.  Fanciful thinking.  Magic thinking.  Later my meds doc would call it a coping mechanism.  As long as it was helping, not hurting, we don’t prevent it.  But 20 plus years now my closest friends, my most trusted companions, have only been in my head.  And I can’t help but wonder, when do I lose control?  When do I lose touch with reality?  With the reality that they aren’t real.  Aren’t there.

Please don’t see this as a sign of trouble.  Those who need to know, know.  Those who see me daily will watch for it to change, morph, into something more.  So now I ride it out.  I’m still stable.  This has been a constant for most of 20 years.  It has never been a problem.  In fact, usually, it’s the cure.  It just gets so very old sometimes.