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Who am I, really?
This question plagues me now. I have not an answer, nor even a theory. For years I have molded myself into who I am today, but that person that I am now is not truly myself. I have always done my best to behave as others expect me to behave, I have tried to have dreams that I believe they want me to dream. I have given myself hopes and aspirations that I believed they wanted me to hope and aspire for. I chose a profession that I believed they would find worthy, and though it does interest me I do not become excited at the prospect of having such a dreary planned out future. Everything that I am now is a lie. Or, most of it. The true me is here, somewhere, buried beneath masks that have been worn so long that they are as much a part of me as anything else. My true thoughts, feelings, and sometimes intentions are kept silent, a voice that knows better than to speak, for to speak it would cause the masks to break, and without them I am nothing. No one.
My emotions are real, of that I am certain. But I do not always share them, in fact I usually pretend one thing and feel another. But I know the difference between my false emotions and my true ones. My love of those I cherish is very real, but what they know of me is not. Nor is it a lie, really. For how can I lie about who I am, when I myself do not know who I am? How can they know me when I myself do not? Some know more of the true me than others, but even they can only know the bits of me with the thinnest masks. I am far more unstable than I appear, and though I will never act on it, that is to say, I will never end my own life, that does not mean that the thought hasn't crossed my mind.
Perhaps it has not, not really. While it is true that I have wanted this life to end, it is equally true that I have desired to become immortal, to never die. In one part of me I crave death, an end to the torment my mind and soul have experienced from time to time, when I least expect it. Yet another part of me loves so very much of this world, and certainly the people in it. I could never leave them, and I shall never want to leave so much unfinished, and so much more unspoken.
Worry not my friends, family. I am fine and no harm shall come to me, for this is merely a rant, an expression of thoughts that have plagued me on and off for years. No actions are necessary, for I am merely contemplating the true thoughts of my true self in order to help me discover who I really am.
But a person is not made up of thoughts alone, nor of emotions alone. No, I am made of my thoughts, emotions, but also of my decisions. I have chosen to live, just as I have chosen to wear my masks in order to protect those I love from these dark stains that have tainted my soul for as long as I can remember. I always wished to be normal, to be well liked and loved. Now I am, though I am too afraid to speak with most others, those that I do speak with like the person I pretend to be, and so I keep on pretending to be her, for it keeps me from being alone.
That is my biggest fear, I think. To be alone. I no longer know how to be anyone other than the girl I am expected to be, and I often wonder what I would be like if no one cared. But people do care. The way I look, the way I speak, the actions I take, all are judged by everyone around me, and I hate myself for not being better, thinner, more soft-spoken yet with stronger words.
I hate that I don't know how to become something I am unsure I wish to become. I hate that I do not have any real control over my own life. I hate that money rules everything, and that I lack the skills necessary to make any. I hate that I cannot provide for a child, for my love, and for myself. I hate that I am not true to myself, but even more I hate that I no longer know who I am.
Worry not, for as much as I hate myself, I love my soul. My love for my inner self and for those dear to me is equal, if not greater, than my hatred of myself. The light and darkness war inside me, then they find balance. It is how I manage to maintain my masks, how I can continue to smile even when inside I'm screaming. And no one knows it. My smile is so well-practiced that as of yet no one has noticed the falsity of it, not when I am trying to make it seem real, at least. I am so sincere with my false joy that no one suspects the turmoil hidden carefully beneath layer upon layer of masks. Sometimes I even fool myself, for a little while.
And then I dream. And when I wake to the world and to this version of myself, the pain cuts deeply into my heart, for I know that dreams are merely dreams, and the reality of my soul is not necessarily the reality of this dimension, this world. I often wish to dream and never wake, to live in the fantasy world in my mind, where pain exists, but is not abundant, and where I can be anything and anyone I want and still be loved, but just as importantly, safe.
It is only in my dreams that I am truly free, and by the time I wake I lose sense of the true me, the part of myself that can only be glimpsed behind closed eyes and a sleeping consciousness. If I could tap into that, perhaps I could answer the question. Still, it eats at me.
Who am I, really?