The Gift of Aphantasia

Field Notes on Attention - No. 1

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My mother once became frustrated with me when she asked me to imagine rearranging a room.

“Make a mental picture,” she said.

“I can’t,” I cried, wondering what was wrong with me.

My mother had assumed that everyone imagined the way she did.

I assumed everyone imagined the way I did.

In fact, only recently did I realize that “see it in your mind’s eye” was not necessarily a metaphor, but actually something many people were capable of.

My mother and I just hadn’t realized that there were different ways to think.

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Nothing was wrong with me.

To this day, I rarely can drum up a picture in my mind.

I likely have aphantasia.

But it’s not wrong with me.

It’s a gift.

I may not see colors or objects or imaginary things in my mind. But I see things in terms of relationships.

And that’s been a revelation. I may have sensed it to a degree, but only now have I found the words for it.

Perhaps that’s why I often think of writing as archaeology—not inventing meaning, but uncovering the relationships already buried beneath the surface.

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Aphantasia is the “inability to voluntarily create mental images in one’s mind.”

I know what my father looks like and can describe him, but I cannot see his face in my mind.

Some have defined aphantasia as seeing nothing but a “black screen”, though I wonder if it doesn’t run more on a spectrum rather than occupy a single pole.

I’ve never seen a “black screen” in my mind.

Nor have I ever imagined my father’s face.

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The gift?

I see in relationships—how people, events, objects, etc. relate to each other. Looking back, it explains much of what has fascinated me throughout my life.

Relationships and connections. Those make sense to me—more than trying to picture a face or a fantasy beast. I see relationships and connections more easily.

Aphantasia is not a disorder or disability. It’s simply a variation of how the brain processes information and imagination.

A gift.

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I love seeing the world in the context of relationships.

If you’ve read many of my writings—not just the essays, but the poetry and prose—I believe you will recognize the trend:

How story is not characters and events, but characters relating to events and other characters.

Meaning is not found in a word; it’s found in how it relates to the words surrounding it.

I don’t think the information is missing. Only the display.

Lacking an image, I imagine my brain resorts to using an abstract code to conceptualize my father’s face, for example—thinking in relationships and facts.

The gift is in forcing me to dig down deeper and examine the fundamental nature of thought. A rabbit hole I absolutely appreciate.

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I used to think writing helped me remember.

Now I think writing helps me discover how I think.

If every mind has its own native language, how would you describe yours?