When I first realised I had aphantasia, I wasn’t trying to form theories or challenge anyone’s understanding—I was simply trying to make sense of my own mind. The confusion wasn’t just mine; this was new territory for everyone involved. The focus was always on the absence of visual imagery, then on the main five sensory based types of mental imagery—which I also lacked—but what about the other forms of mental imagery I did possess? Imagery I assumed everyone had and understood—like they assumed I had visual imagery and understood it existed.
I wasn’t trying to create scientific explanations. I was searching for scientific words to express my lived experience—which is how I stumbled across the term "Yedasentience"—now I understood how my mind was indeed different. I wanted a language that could describe the sensations, thoughts, and experiences happening inside my mind, even if they weren’t visual, even if only temporary. That search became my mission.
It began with a poem about an observation I had: a framework of language used for describing the mind elsewhere. That poem, Tenebrous Neurodivergence, wasn’t just creative expression—it was my attempt to capture what existing words couldn’t explain and evolved into Clairvoyant Appropriation and then Marriage of Science and Mysticism. In December 2024, I personally spoke with Adam Zeman about the lack of language for my experiences. By 2025, the Aphantasia Network formally clarified some of the emerging new concepts, which align with my initial perceptions.
High Emotional Imagery: Feeling Every Word
While I might lack visual imagery due to aphantasia, my emotional imagery is intense—I feel everything. Every word carries weight, every interaction leaves a mark. When someone misunderstands me, dismisses my experiences, or attacks my intentions, it doesn’t just pass by unnoticed. It wounds. It occurs a lot in aphantasia groups when sharing these thoughts, which are generally met with curiosity elsewhere.
I understand that many with aphantasia can also experience some form of alexithymia or emotional blindness—a difficulty in recognising or expressing emotions in oneself or in others. This difference can create a disconnect between those who process emotions intellectually and those, like me, who experience and understand them intensely. What feels like a simple disagreement to some can cut deeply for someone like me, where emotions are vividly felt even if they aren’t visually imagined. Especially when I encounter so much of it.
This emotional depth makes it even harder to engage in discussions where I constantly have to defend myself. I am tried of constantly defending the fact I think and share thoughts. Creating the Mental Imagery Resistance (MIR) wasn’t just about finding language—it was about creating a space where emotional experiences are acknowledged and respected, even if they differ from the norm. A place where those who feel deeply, or seek understanding of their own emotions, can speak without fear of being dismissed or hurt.
The Need for a Safe Space to Speak
I shared these thoughts in aphantasia groups over the past couple of years, hoping for empathy and understanding, but instead, I have been met with resistance. People misunderstood my attempts to express personal experiences and find language as me trying to propose new “theories,” and I am constantly forced to clarify myself and endure personal attacks. Every time I explain, the criticism becomes sharper, as if my search for understanding is a threat to the community instead of being about genuine exploration.
No one has been able to answer my questions or provide a way to detail these mental experiences I have—such as intraphonic imagery but no auditory imagery, spatial imagery or emotional imagery, even the loss of my dream imagery. That’s why I wrote the ResearchGate papers and sought advice and clarity from Adam Zeman, for my struggles to be understood and to find language for the imagery I possess. I wanted a professional and less abusive discussion about my lived experience and the lack of language. The discussion with the professor helped, but it only intensified the issues I faced within the community. I am grateful there is more clarity to the scientific definitions today and that it aligns with my own understanding.
I created the website and forum to ensure I had a safe space to 'air my thoughts'—and where others could do so too, without fear. The forum wasn’t built to compete with scientific research or to replace the ongoing conversations in other groups. It was built so I could speak freely and connect with others who might be asking the same questions I was. It is hosted on a free platform, and quietly linked through a button on my website. There’s no grand recruitment strategy behind it; in fact, especially as it is new, I’m the only one here. But at least it’s a space where I can explore these thoughts without being silenced.
Passive Aggression, Personal Attacks and PTSD
Facing constant misunderstandings and personal attacks doesn’t just frustrate me—it wears me down emotionally. I live with anxiety and PTSD, and every interaction where I have to defend my words becomes another reminder—in strong emotional imagery—of past experiences where my voice has been ignored or dismissed.
My anxiety makes me even more verbose than I am naturally, not because I want to overwhelm people, but because I am trying so hard to be understood. Every sentence is an effort to explain my thoughts as clearly as possible, to leave no room for misunderstanding. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I am constantly being misinterpreted—my search for language was seen as unnecessary, my observations dismissed as irrelevant.
How AI Became a Tool for Clarity
That’s why I turned to AI—not because I needed validation, but because AI doesn’t judge or misinterpret my intentions. It helps me articulate my thoughts clearly, without the fear of being attacked. AI lets me know what does and doesn't have merit, helps me locate words that do exist for my experiences and reflects my words back to me in a way that allows me to refine what I’m trying to say, making it easier to find the language that has always eluded me.
In the absence of understanding from others, AI gave me space to process my thoughts, helping me feel heard—even if the listener wasn’t human. It is a beneficial tool in such cases. It is a prosthetic that allows me to communicate without my disability becoming overly present and causing added communication issues.
Seeking Community, Not Control
My goal was never to create a competing narrative about aphantasia. I’m not here to challenge scientific research or reshape anyone’s understanding of it. I am trying to align with it, as it emerges and gets defined, as my blog posts detail. I just want to find a community that understands the questions I’m asking and recognises the need for language around non-visual mental experiences.
The website and forum I built reflect that goal. They exist not to “recruit” but to offer a space where those who feel misunderstood elsewhere can find someone who’s also searching for answers. A place where personal experience can coexist with scientific research without fear of judgment.
An Advocacy Space and the MIR
The Mental Imagery Resource (MIR) isn’t a scientific project—it’s an advocacy space for those, like me, who believe there are more types of imagery than those currently defined by existing research. As this is still a developing field, much about mental imagery remains unexplored or poorly understood.
This platform was created to give voice to experiences that don’t always fit into the existing frameworks of aphantasia or other recognised forms of mental imagery. It’s a space for those who feel their inner experiences are overlooked, misinterpreted, or simply don’t align with the current scientific definitions.
The goal isn’t to challenge science but to expand the conversation. While disclaimers across the website, forum, and terms and conditions make it clear that this isn’t a scientific resource, MIR exists to advocate for greater recognition of the complexity and diversity of mental imagery. By sharing personal experiences, we can help shape future research and deepen the understanding of this evolving field.
A Place to Be Heard Without Judgment
I deserve, just like anyone else, to seek out understanding and connection. My space was created out of necessity—a place where I could speak without fear of being misunderstood, criticised, or silenced.
If you’ve ever felt dismissed when trying to explain your inner world, I hope my experience shows you that you’re not alone. Every voice deserves to be heard, and every experience deserves language that can describe it—even if that language hasn’t been discovered yet.
Why Is My Search for Understanding Unwelcome?
One of the most frustrating parts of my journey has been the double standard I’ve encountered. Researchers are allowed to post in aphantasia groups regularly, recruiting participants for their studies without facing accusations or personal attacks. And rightly so—research is essential for deepening our understanding of aphantasia.
Why is it that when I share my own experiences or seek others who might relate, I’m met with resistance? Be it as myself, under my blog or through the advocacy campaign? Why is it acceptable for researchers to search for participants, but not for me to search for an understanding community? My goal isn’t to undermine science—it’s to complement it with personal insights that science hasn’t fully explored yet.
This gatekeeping within the aphantasia community doesn’t just silence personal experiences—it stifles advocacy and the growth of understanding that should come from open discussion. If research and personal exploration worked together, we could build a richer, more complete picture of what it means to live with aphantasia.
