Missing Someone

When others talk about longing, it sounds like a foreign language to me. They speak of tears, of pain, of the feeling that someone is missing. For me, “missing someone” is actually… nothing. I’ve learned what it means, but I experience it differently - actually, not at all. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes to me. It’s as if I have the concept, but not the experience that goes with it.

I live very much in the moment. The here and now has absolute presence for me; everything before that gradually fades away. Other people describe having spontaneous images in their minds - faces, places, situations. Not me. Even my children or my wife disappear from my imagination after a few days. I still know what they look like, but this knowledge is purely conceptual, like a description in a book. “Height, hair color, eye color, facial expression” - these are all variables, characteristics. Not images.

I can remember if I concentrate - but then no inner image comes to mind, just a fact. I know I have children. I know what they must look like. But I don’t see them in front of me. And the longer I don’t see them, the less I miss them. Sometimes, after a week, I wonder if I really have children or if I just dreamed it. Before I knew I had aphantasia, that was normal. Now I feel differently - and it sometimes makes me sad.

My wife is the opposite. She has a storm of images in her head, an inner screen that never goes dark. I see her world and sense that it would overwhelm me. When she describes how images don’t fade after a moment of shock (she is an emergency doctor), I’m almost relieved that I don’t experience that. It makes me feel at peace - and it reconciles me with my own way of thinking and feeling. I don’t have a storm of images, but a quiet expanse. The peace within it is my home.

What I sometimes miss is the feeling of closeness from afar. Many people draw strength from memories - from images of loved ones they hold in their minds. I can’t do that. I know about love, but I don’t “see” it. I want to be able to miss someone - just sit down and think of someone, without effort, without struggle. To feel less alone. To know, not rationally but emotionally, that there is someone who loves me and whom I love.

I’ve found strategies to maintain a sense of closeness. My wife sends me a new photo every day when she’s away for a while. These images are like an anchor for me. They bring a person, a moment, a reality into my day. Then I know: She’s there, somewhere, right now. Without images, I have no past - that’s why I take so many photos, why I love receiving them so much. Every photo is like a piece of memory that I would otherwise lose. They are the visible chapters of my life that help me remember. And for me, they are the most precious “possessions” I have.

Perhaps this is my own way of dealing with missing someone: not through images in my head, but through images in the world. I am free, like a kite (a bird), which I carry as a symbol. I enjoy what I can enjoy, and let happen what happens. I know when things begin to fade - faces, after four to five days, they’re gone. And yet I know how to hold onto them: in current photos, in moments, in words. This creates a different form of memory for me - concrete, visible, conscious.

I miss things differently. Or perhaps not at all. But I have learned what closeness means to me. It is not in the mind, but in the experience. And therein lies reconciliation as well. I know what I am missing - and I have found ways to keep it in my world. So for me, missing someone is not a loss, but a realization: that connection can take many forms, and that mine is one of them. How is about you?

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Neal White•recently•edited

Thanks for posting such a personal, thoughtful message. I have extreme aphantasia and often don't recognize my inner emotions or the emotion of others. However, I do experience loss quite deeply and it persists for years, especially the passing of a beloved pet or a close friend.

Missing Someone – Or Not