Bob and I

Whenever I take a course in abnormal psychology, they also pay lip service to the need to consider specific contexts when interpreting symptoms and disorders.

So, for instance (a lesson for the day for you), we know that distress is manifested in different ways in Western and Eastern cultures-- what may cause depression and anxiety in a typical North American may instead be displayed in the form of physical symptoms in members of a more collectivist culture. Even more interesting is the culture specific disorders, such as koro, a disorder found in South-East Asia in which men experience extreme distress over the perceived retraction of their penis into their body.

Another example of how symptoms need to be interpreted in a particular context appears to be the case of imaginary friends in childhood. Whereas seeing and talking to someone who isn't there is deemed hallucinatory in adolescence and adulthood, the very same experience is not considered symptomatic in childhood. Imaginary friends are generally excluded from the symptoms of childhood psychosis. In fact, research suggests that children with imaginary friends may be especially creative and socially skilled.

Which brings me to the story (or Pointful family legend, if you prefer) of Bob.

When I was around the age of 6, I developed an imaginary companion.

While most girls my age with imaginary friends, you would imagine, would develop invisible friends who were princess, teenage girls, or even unicorns, I went the opposite direction.

Bob was the furthest thing from glamourous. He was a non-descript middle aged man.
In fact, he was the character from Sesame Street

(Another random fact- Bob has been on Sesame Street for over 38 years! Thus, the Bob of that picture is probably many years older than my 1980s Bob)

The funny thing is, no one even remembers who Bob is when I tell them the story. They remember Maria & Luis, Gordon, Linda, and of course Mr. Hooper-- but Bob needs a little reminding.

I was heavily invested in my relationship with Bob. He would follow me along all day long. In what may have been a bad sign for my maturity, my little sister, who, as far as I can figure, was only around 3 or 4 when this was occuring, actually made up a pretend invisible friend to compete with Bob. The thing is, my sister never actually saw Alice (as she was dubbed). She just wanted to be like me and have an invisible friend. Living on a several acre hobby farm on the outskirts of town, I suppose the emergence of Bob probably led to me neglecting her a bit. Unfortunately, this lead to several petty arguments, in which we would debate whether Alice or Bob was in fact sitting on the swing.

Bob also led to some frustrating on the part of my parents. I was always calling them back into my bedroom after they said goodnight because they forgot to tuck Bob in, or making them get back out of the car to buckle Bob's seatbelt. One of my mom's favourite tales is when I burst into tears after she slammed Bob's fingers in the door.

The funny thing is, I don't remember Bob at all. I remember talking about him while he was supposedly there, but most of these memories are more the stuff of family legends repeated many times than directly from my thoughts. I cannot remember actually seeing this man with me. I'm not sure if it was an outright hallucination, or just a sense of someone, or what.
I kind of wish I remembered my relationship with Bob, actually.

***

And, please, spare the lame comments about having a man in bed with me at that age. I was six, for Christ sake, and Sesame Street is probably these most asexual show on the planet.