Perception… what a wonderful shadow it is to hide under.
The first time I remember playing the role of someone else was when I was seven years old.
After sitting in a corner of the cold bathroom floor for longer than an hour, I knew that the first break of smile that escaped my lips was not of my own. The tears-stained cheeks and my badly bruised hands were a bright contrast to the sudden uplift of my mouth, and the knowledge of it came as naturally as it did to any seven-year-old brain. This was just a story. And I was just an actor who played a part in it. Reality was but a fickle in that tiny little mind of mine back then. Play pretend, that was easy. I knew enough about it from the little games I sometimes saw other kids indulge in. And I knew I could do it too. Maybe if I do just that, it would be enough to stop this body of mine from getting all black and blue the next time around.
I learned to play with others’ perceptions very quickly after that, and with it, came this terrifyingly beautiful power of painting myself in any way I wanted to be, creating an illusion so vivid it seemed real. I was an artist at heart from the very start, so the process of it came easy, and I began painting picture after picture, each further and further away from the one that was real.
It might be a misconception to some that this might be a post where I brag about my originality from the rest of society. But that will be the furthest from the truth. While I do enjoy this process of misdirecting and misleading that I tend to do to all who are around me, I know that most of us hide behind one mask or the other, that only falls off when the lights are out.
The game of misconception is something we all play. Some of us mildly; trying to fit in with the world and be considered among the rest. And others, well… this is where the story turns a little black and white because there is no right answer that can fit with everyone’s reasons.
My own is a little bit cliched around the edges. While this thing of playing with perceptions did start off as a desperate move to fit in and ‘be safe’ for the seven-year-old me, with times and tides changing, it became something more, let’s say, complicated.
I’ve always valued the thought of going under the radar. No good comes from drawing too much attention towards oneself when what only comes out of it are too many questions and a few unexpected answers to deal with. That, compared to my volatile childhood and the sense of abandonment that has clouded my brain for the longest time, I knew that if I wanted to survive the short amount of time that I have on this planet, I needed to be as normal as I could possibly be, just in case. Curiosity always killed the cat, and in my head, the cat has always been me, being struck down by questioning eyes and lingering observations that felt too itchy on my skin to bear.
That is where the play with personas took place, and now I wear her like a second skin. She smiles when she needs to, is the right amount of relatable without raising many eyebrows, and is a normal human with her quiet but bubbly persona. She radiates warmth, can be intellectual if it’s needed, and never shies away from providing comfort. She is all that I never could’ve been in my real skin, so I try to keep her on as much as I can.
Although the notion that all my sprouting might lead to me seeking clout did come to my mind, I knew that there were thoughts running in my head that were too detached for some to understand. I’ve faced the burn too many times to conclude that things that I thought were better stuffed back into the closet, so that is all I did. But even doing that has left me with a disadvantage I haven’t been ready to swallow.
It seems that the words that came freely from my outer skin have finally started to dwindle. These days, I do not really know how to write anything without bleeding a bit of my bitterness into every piece I create. And it has been taking a toll on me.
Because even with the perception being a wonderful shadow to hide under, I know how easy it is to break it apart. And my walls have held strong for years. But with every new story, I can see it crack all around me, leaving me more visible than I was the moment before.
Even playing pretend did come to an end at one point, and as it seems, right now, I’m standing on the last act of my tragedy. Whether I survive this glorious theatre or burn as the curtains fall is something only time will tell.
