Week 5: Kayfabe

 

Several years ago, my therapist called me a liar.

Kind of.

She told me that most of my smiles are fake; they don’t quite reach my eyes. She said that it could be considered lying. She had a point. It was a lie so deeply imbedded in me that even I believed it was true. I believed my fake smiles were genuine. Or at least I thought I was fooling people. Apparently I wasn’t.

That was the first time I considered myself a liar, or a fake. Wasn’t the last.

I fake smiles, happiness, and a cherry attitude on a daily basis. Not only do I work in customer service, where the sweet as sugar act is commonplace, but I don’t want to let people in. You think I’m doing fine, that I don’t feel that familiar pull of depression, that’s fantastic. It’s what I want you to believe. I don’t want you to know that most days I don’t want to get out of bed, that I have to continuously remind myself that showering is not an enormous chore. I don’t want you to know how far down that worn path I’ve already traveled.

Facebook is another place you see the fake me. I guess that’s not too surprising. A lot of people like to either portray their life on social media as either really amazing or really fucked up. The show I put on is a little different. I remain quiet while I’m screaming on the inside. (Hmm. I guess that’s a thing with me.) It’s mostly political stuff. If you saw my posts on Facebook, you would think I’m either very neutral or I just don’t care. I don’t post anything political, or anything showing which way I lean. I will like the posts my friends make that I agree with, hide some of the stuff I don’t want to see. Sometimes I would love to post “I believe ‘X, Y, Z,’ and if you don’t like it, too bad.” But I don’t. I hold back. I don’t want to offend people, I don’t want conflict.

LJ Idol, Literary Prize Fight. This may be my most difficult confession. I read the entries every week, and I’m amazed by all the talent. How I’m still here, I don’t know. I keep expecting someone to call me out as an imposter. Or even a child playing make believe. I’m not a writer. I’ve wanted to be. But, I’m not. It’s why I never ask for constructive criticism. I’m afraid this fragile little house I’ve built—this story that I am a writer—will come crashing down. It’s why I don’t comment as much as I want, or why I just reply “Thank you,” to 99% of the comments on my entries. I feel I don’t belong.

I guess I’m just trying to keep up appearances.

See? That therapist was right. I am a liar.