The many me’s; the many you’s

Who am I?

Am I the girl that goes to work every day and makes responsible decisions, talks to hundreds of customers and takes a stand on things? Or maybe I’m the girl that’s too confused and afraid to choose what she should have for lunch, and needs someone else to decide for her. Yet, I could be the raging bitch that wants to verbally tear you down so you know you can’t walk all over her…but maybe I am the doormat, because I just don’t know better. Then there’s that one girl. The confident one who can pose in front of a camera, tell a funny joke, or be the joke and laugh at herself…but no, because there’s also the me that shields her face from the lens, criticizes every feature of her body until she brings herself to tears and then injures herself physically to prove her self-hatred for that girl, and to punish her.

I’m not sure who I am. I was brushing my teeth and saw myself in the mirror. I really hate looking at myself in the mirror. It feels like I’m looking at someone else, but when I do feel like I’m looking at “me”, it never goes well. So when I saw her in the mirror, I was wondering who I was, and it sort of hit me a bit more at that moment that I really have no cohesive sense of anyone, including myself.

When someone is being nice, that’s one person. When that “same person” is being mean, I separate that person into two; the nice person and the mean person. I’m not sure how to put them together. How can Johnny be good, but be so bad all at the same time? Johnny isn’t real. I just made him up for an example, but you get it. Then there’s “me”. I don’t know how to put all of those things together for myself either, in order to create a cohesive identity.

Splitting. I’ve talked about it before, but it goes so much further beyond just the good and the bad. It’s like whichever trait is more prevalent at any given time, creates a new person out of that person. It gets so confusing if you can imagine. No wonder I’m always observing people. I’m trying to figure out who they are at that time. Is it mean Johnny? Nice Johnny? Funny Johnny? Shy Johnny? Angry Johnny? Who knows.

It’s very confusing being borderline. Nothing makes sense. I’m sad.


One thought on “The many me’s; the many you’s

  1. For a while there, I used to wear five hats:

    the work hat, which had me at my most controlled and subdued and contained;

    the Clients hat,which had me at my most controlled and subdued and contained while still managing to be human and caring;

    the break-time / Smoking Circle hat, which had me at my loosest and least predictable, most highly irreverent, giving me the opportunity to take things no more seriously than they deserved to be;

    my Lizzie hat, which brought with it the strength I needed for both of us to fight the dragon, to slay the beast, to protect the enchanted kingdom of mutual respect and concern and caring and love that had grown over the previous years;

    and the only literal hat in the bunch, my trusty Red Sox cap, the one I wore late at night, under the hood of my faithful, oversized Red Sox sweatshirt, for those times when I felt like I was about to knuckle under, when I was about to break, when the only things I had to turn to were Jack and Frodo one either side of me. Sitting on the couch, my knees pulled up to my eyes to muffle the sobbing that broke the comforting silence.

    Five different hats.
    Still me.
    Just depended on the mood and the appropriate timing.

    Some of those hats we have to wear when the mood isn’t right, when only the timing is appropriate.
    Some of those hats we never want to take off, have them surgically conjoined with our pre-frontal cortex.
    But I wore each of them the best I could, having to remind myself they each served a purpose, but not The Purpose.

    The Purpose is a cloak you wear around your heart, to protect your soul from the wind and the cold that can seem to come from all around you.
    Don’t ever let yourself take it off.
    And it goes well with every hat you can possibly wear.

    Just for God’s sake, don’t wear any of those hats backwards. Unless you’re under the age of eight or the starting catcher for the Red Sox that day it just make you look fucking foolish.
    You should be arrested for that.

    It’s like St. George once said:
    “Having a ‘bad hair day’? Put your fucking hat on!”

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