Coming to terms with the real me

Two summers ago, my stalker claimed that he “knew” me because he had read every single thing I had ever published.

But that isn’t the real me, I had wanted to say. That is just an online persona. That is how I talk in my head when I am writing. That is me performing online.

And it does so much feel like a performance. That I cannot bare my bones and just exist within my skin. That even when I am writing about an honest experience, I am also self-censoring.

I tried keeping this anonymous blog once (it still exists somewhere) where I could proclaim my inanities without shame. But even faced with faceless strangers, I kept up the performance until finally one day, I stopped writing there completely.

The truth is… the only time I can truly shed my skin is when I am fictionalizing. The moment I turn to fiction, the words become more visceral, more a part of me than apart from me. It’s ironic in some way, I suppose. That I can be myself when I am essentially making things up, and not otherwise.

It’s almost as if the real me is a fictionalized version of me. Or, several versions of me.

The only comfort is that they are less idealized versions. Versions that help me come to terms with who I really am.