Growing older, I expected my little habit to taper off, to be replaced by real relationships, real excitement, real successes. Once I had freedom and control, I thought, my conjured dramas would pale in comparison to my daily activities. Alas, I was wrong. Time rolled on, and my daydreaming didn’t taper off. Rather, it became more personal, more hidden, and more intense. Every apartment I moved to — every bedroom, every empty hotel room, every car seat — was a place ripe with the opportunity to escape.

In my university years, I’d stay up late, just like any other student. Sometimes it was because I was drinking with friends, or studying for an exam, or chasing some oblivious boy — but more often than not, it was because I was in my room, letting my mind take me elsewhere, to a place where I’d already achieved the things I was just beginning to think about creating. After all, if you have access to a place in which you’ve accomplished your goals, why bother pursuing them in the real world?

In my gut, I knew all along that something was wrong with my behavior. I knew it wasn’t right for a young woman to willingly lock herself away, deadening her senses in favor of fabricated realities. More than anything, I knew it wasn’t healthy to blast my ears out with full-volume music for hours a day. (I needed the volume to be at its maximum, as any indication of outside noise could ruin my illusion.)

With the advent of the internet, I would occasionally search for something — anything — that could describe or explain my condition. Any search for "intense fantasizing," "daydream escapism," or "pacing with music" came up cold, which seemingly confirmed my little habit as a private quirk. I never came across the research that Dr. Somer had already begun, so I began to accept the fact that if I ever wanted to be done with fantasy, I’d have to go it alone. Too many journal pages were filled, hailing the beginning of a given week, month, or year as being the date I would stop daydreaming once and for all. But I could never keep my promise. I’m now 34 years old, and I’ve never really kicked the habit.

In 2016, I ventured to search online again. This time, though, something had changed. In a few quiet corners of the internet, a discussion had begun. References were being made to a condition — as yet unrecognized by the powers that be, but reported by thousands upon thousands of individuals. That condition was MD. I read first-person accounts of sufferers who reported being drawn to their alternate realities like a drug, with intricate daydreams taking up hours a day, every day. Everyone’s approach was different: Some got lost in soap opera storylines, some performed in front of famous Hollywood actors, some had successful alternative careers. Some could manage their lives despite the daydreaming, and others were completely lost inside it.

Reading other people’s accounts felt like slipping into subzero water. My limbs whirred with the combined emotions of relief, shame, and concern. Over the years, I’d wondered about the origin and seriousness of my problem, but the nectar of daily escape had been so sweet, and the addiction so comfortable, that I’d never truly wanted to peer into its darkest corners. After decades, all it took was a few paragraphs of external confirmation for me to recognize that my harmless little habit was likely a disorder shared by thousands worldwide. And as I saw my exact symptoms buzzing repeatedly across the screen before me, I had an instant longing to overcome it.