I Am Not Myself
By Turi Sioson
Artwork by Casey Beifuss
Among my friends and family, I am known for picking up idiosyncrasies. I say “Really?” and “Oh my god” the way one of my managers does; I laugh in some combination of my neighbor from when I was five, Taylor Swift, and my best friends. I copied the way I stand with my hands behind my back from an ex; I picked up inflections of various words and phrases from dozens of my coworkers.
In the company of others, I mold myself to them. Every person who’s not my closest friend or immediate family gets a version of me that’s blank: a clean slate. I fidget; I forget how I stand. I look to them to see: Are they hunching their shoulders? Are they looking around? How are they angling their feet? Every fact I think I know about myself when I’m dancing in my room, eating with my friends, or talking to my parents falls right out of my head. Of course, this doesn’t mean I can’t get through conversations with classmates, coworkers, and strangers just fine, if a little awkwardly. But when someone talks to me, I don’t know if they’re really interacting with me.
Last week, I caught myself molding to my best friend during a casual conversation, nodding my head to an opinion I didn’t think I fully agreed with. I was annoyed that I had done so with someone I was so comfortable with, but I shrugged it off the best I could. But when I went home and thought back on our conversation, I realized that she was right, and that I would have never approached the topic from her perspective if I had immediately expressed my disagreement. I wondered — was it really all that bad that I mirrored people?
In my poetry writing class last semester, I was surrounded by talented, genuine, funny and kind people; I forced myself to go to that class even when I felt like staying in bed and skipping. Our professor was young, passionate, bubbly and intelligent, and she brought us, for the most part, out of our shells with her anecdotes and questions. I finally felt that I’d found my community, but there was only one problem: I didn’t know how to act.
I would frequently mirror whoever spoke last, especially if it was someone I admired. If someone remarked that it was a little too cold with the windows open, I would second the opinion, even if I was actually pretty comfortable. When someone pointed out a theme or technique about another’s work, I’d nod if everyone else was, even if I didn’t agree. On more than one occasion, I pretended to know a poet or musical artist that I had never heard of, just to make the person I was talking to feel fully understood.
On the inside, I was shrinking away from my actions, embarrassed that I wasn’t acting like myself — but I was also reaching for anything that would instantly paint me as attentive and relatable, submitting to the anxious urgency of wanting to fit in.
At the same time as I was so concerned with connecting with my peers, I was confusing myself into thinking that I never could: I know I’m not like this, so what am I doing? Maybe I’m just awkward; maybe this is just how I am. I’m being weird, but that’s just normal for me. Making friends has never exactly been my forte, but this constant suppression of self put me in a position of a nearly never-ending performance with people who I wanted nothing more than to be myself with.
Even after an entire semester, I could never get close to anyone in class because I not only had never put my real self forward, but I chided myself for doing so, making me hesitant to approach anyone lest they think I was weird.
Although it was awkward and disappointing to not make any friends when the potential was certainly there, I was never unhappy. I made acquaintances; I didn’t lose anything, and when it was my turn to speak, I could still express my own opinion separate from my peers. When I went home, I still knew what my true personality was. Sometimes I simply gained something new to try on, like my love for Mitski, who I had never actually listened to despite claiming to (I do know and love her now) or the way I am now more open to traditional poetry forms, which I formerly hated but claimed to have reverence for because my classmate said she liked them.
Even in my conformity with my classmates, I never compromised my values; I only enhanced them. But I have compromised my values before in romantic relationships, and the positive characteristics I gained from these experiences only came after some extreme unhappiness and confusion.
I have never felt particularly comfortable with being labeled as “girlfriend.” Not because I don’t enjoy being someone’s girlfriend, and not because I want something stronger or more casual — it’s just that when someone calls me “girlfriend,” I immediately conform to a stereotype. I giggle more often or pout more than I usually would; I text “How was your day? :)” when really I’d rather send a meme or a “ur mom” joke. I perform as who I think a girlfriend should be, and as a result, I become incredibly unhappy.
In the worst instances of this, I have genuinely lost my personality. Though I have pretended to like things my exes did or acted more in line with their characteristics, this performance strips away every unique part of me. By the end of my last relationship, I was no longer making the stupid dad jokes I’ve always loved; I was wearing makeup that I hated on days I didn’t feel like wearing it. I lost my budding self-sufficiency and thought my youth wasn’t complete without a romantic relationship, though I had for years before believed the opposite.
It took me three months of asking myself “what do I want?” and “who am I?” over and over, and hours with my friends and family to regain my personality. But what came out the other side was a personality more genuine than before; I had opened myself up to something different.
Before, I was shy and faking my sense of confidence; now, I was flirty and carried myself with ease, a trait I picked up from pretending to be indifferent to my ex (a coworker) after we broke up. Though I was sure and outspoken about my personality, sexuality and opinions before our relationship, conforming to the “perfect girlfriend” role stripped me of my loud tendencies and spit me back out as reserved, yet bold and loud in what I did have to say — a truer version of myself.
I neither claim that every instance of my conformity is positive, nor am I not still frustrated when it happens. But I've realized, lately, that it is charming — with every trait from someone else that I try on, I pick and choose the pieces I love the most and intertwine them with myself. Even though I was a former know-it-all, I now explain things that others don't know patiently and without judgment, because that's what my best friend does. The concern and care that my high school ex gave me — which I once mirrored back to him — I now turn towards myself. I say “goodnight” to all my coworkers when I leave because that's what a server once jokingly insisted of me.
I am a mosaic of all of my favorite things everyone I love or have ever loved does and says; I am a reflection of the pieces of everyone I respect or have ever respected. In handing myself over to the opinions and tendencies of others for a time, I hone my sense of self and find what fits with me.
Even my love for writing was once mimicked. ♦