Being idealized makes me very uncomfortable now, when I think about it. It used to thrill me when I was younger, that other people could think up an idealized version of myself by cherry-picking certain aspects of my personality they liked and then forming an ideal in their mind, and it thrilled me that I could identify just that very ideal and then fully embody that whenever we were together. And I could do that with dozens and dozens of people, and I made them happy that way, that I was exactly what they wanted. It was like a secret thrill, to have this private skill, and I was well-liked for it.
Of course along the way I had to grow up. The schtick didn’t have the same shine to it anymore, I grew tired of the many characters I had to put on. When the pandemic arrived and there was no one to perform to in the new isolation, I had only my own ghosts to accompany me, and I saw my reality for what it was, I had to. Playing the good, kind daughter wasn’t sustainable any longer when I did it twenty-four hours a day, and it sucked my soul dry because it just wasn’t true.
I have become an expert of sorts in mythologizing now, and most times I have no clue of what my identity is at its very core. When you have created a dozen different versions of yourself that dissolve the moment the public is gone it gets difficult to see what you really are. No one likes to see who they really are, I know that, but even a refracted reflection on an old mirror is better than anything, I suppose.
But I’ve begun to let people in too. I’ve shared parts of myself with some people and other parts with other people, and I’ve grown grateful for whatever I get in return, and I know very few will last for very long, but it doesn’t matter much to me anymore. I mean it will matter of course, when it ends, and I’ll cry again over it, but I’ve lived through these things (somehow) and I suppose I’ll keep living through them again when they arrive. Thank you for arriving, I’ll say. Thank you for passing by.
