False Personalities/Hiding Myself
There are people, real people with layers and stories and pain behind their actions, their motives, their words. And then there are false personalities, that people pull out at cocktail parties and job interviews to please others and themselves. We all use these personalities to cover up the fact that we are people–vulnerable and human and raw. And we use them at the worst moments sometimes.
The thing about having a blog is that people get to know me, the raw vulnerable asshole me through a screen, when in real life my false personality still wraps around me like a security blanket I can’t shake off. And it hurts them, to see how much I hide from them and later reveal through a screen. That’s one of the reasons I considered telling no one about my blog from my real life. I figured it was my big chance to recreate myself, to not let any of those expectations people have for me, the guilt that of disappointing them, seep into my words. But I was too excited, too brash, and I shared my blog.
You can’t unshare that shit. And it’s not that I wish I never had, but it just makes me feel like such an ass when people from real life ask me about stuff from my blog, because I haven’t mentioned any of it to them in person. I even came out to one of my friends as bi through my blog. In high school, it was how my friends knew to check my arms for new cuts and knew I was lying when I made up some bullshit story about tripping and falling. In my relationship with my boyfriend, it’s how he knows something is getting under my skin. This blog is my mouth when the thing on my face just won’t suffice. It is where I create my own space, my own story, and people are welcome to listen or fuck off as they please.
But god, this stupid front I have, this false personality. I try to look strong, to keep my problems locked up so no one has to step around them or look at them. That was the hardest part of going to therapy and doing outpatient. Everyone knew I was fucked up. My parents tiptoed around me for months, and in the evenings I could hear my dad ask my mom, “Why do you think _____ is depressed? What do you think is wrong with her?” And that is a great example of why I don’t tell people when I am upset. I don’t want attention, I don’t want pity. I don’t want people to change the way they looked at me like my parents and friends did when I hit bottom. And I’ve gotten a lot better about being open, but there’s still a long way to go. There’s still this false personality, this false smile, that appears sometimes around people I have known for years.
This blog is a blessing and I curse. I like that I don’t have to have some of those hard conversations with people, but at the same time, maybe if I didn’t have the blog it would force me to have them. I would practice, and maybe get better. Maybe I’d learn how to talk about certain things without shutting down, or worse, crying. But the problem is, it’s not just about looking strong. It’s also about not thinking anyone gives a damn about my personal life. See, that is my default expectation of others: that I am there for them, but they don’t want to be there for me, because it’s easier that way. I know this is a terrible assumption, especially because there are so many genuine, kind-hearted people in my life who are there for me…but it all goes back to those first few assholes who entered my life, took my heart, and left almost nothing left. What can I say? Our first real rejection from our first real love is what irrevocably changes our perspectives on relationships, and most importantly trust.
As time passes, and I become renewed, farther and farther from that person I was on the floor when the person I loved was piercing me with his words, “Just tell me. Just talk to me. Say it. Say it…Say it!!”. I become whole, more receptive to love and more unafraid of the hurt. I have come so far…I just hope the people in my life continue to have the patience to wait until I get there, when there is no false personality and no bullshit lies…when I can be real.