Of all the personality types I can’t stand, fake is the one that bothers me the most. I believe that if you tell a lie long enough, you believe it’s the truth. But, there are people that know and can tell that you’re completely fake. You have a face you show to the world and the one you keep hidden. This is why I don’t like going out a lot. I see a lot of fake people, and whether they know it or not or care or not, I can see it, I can feel it, I can smell it.
The reason I’m so good at seeing it is because I do it too. And I hate being someone else to fit in or please people I don’t even know to fit in in a world I don’t even understand. That’s why I’m always exhausted. I spent my weekend in bed or on the couch again because I just can’t live a lie for one more day to please other people. I can’t.
Fake is easy. I get that.
It’ll never be authentic.
I get worn out as hell just being someone else’s version of myself.
I’m about to go into therapy to be fake, or, maybe to be myself without the substantial fear I’ve always had. That substantial fear led to an amazing internal life and imagination. It always allowed me to be myself–fear, worry, control, ambition–whatever I needed, I had an internal fire leading me. People liked to tell me what I needed and I listened to every single one of them. I listened when I was told I was stupid. I listened when I was told I was selfish. I listened to everything I heard when nobody asked what happened; nobody asked what was going on; nobody asked what I needed. I developed an internal, subconscious voice that is the root of all of my writing. I write my soul without thinking about what I’m saying. I read it much later and it helped me. One day, I started throwing it out into the world hoping it would help others. Jerez what I learned:
Everyone is fighting with something. Nobody, or very few have had that internal, subconscious dialogue that I’ve had the good fortune to have.
I can’t make anyone else believe in themselves. I can only believe and fight for myself.
One day, I may be strong enough to share my soul again, but it isn’t now.
I don’t own anything a damn thing. Except myself. I owe it to myself (Little Julie, I call her), I owe her a better life. I can’t make anyone else understand what that means, but maybe one day, I’ll be able to.
And I’ll still be exhausted. But, it will be for good reason.