I am allowed to like things, technically at least. Realistically, no one would stone me or leave me for enjoying harmless novelties or a certain genre of music. No one would judge me for liking certain art movements or well loved characters. No matter how much I tell myself this, I can’t help but fear people knowing what I like. It feels like an invasion of my being, like I’m being stripped naked and displayed for passersby to observe and critique. Now that I’m thinking of it, forcing myself to do this for the sake of this blog post, I realize that it’s not just my interests; rather, it’s me as a whole that I wish I could hide from the world.
I remember one of the first times this really affected my relationships was my senior year of highschool. My girlfriend at the time asked to look something up on my spotify and I handed my phone over forgetting that I had a few of my guilty pleasure songs in the recently searched. The second I remembered, I snatched my phone back up, deleted everything and handed it back like nothing changed. Later in the day, she messaged me, asking why I was so secretive. Truthfully, I was embarrassed by the idea of her seeing anything I enjoyed out of fear she’d think I was lame. I realized I stopped letting myself enjoy things publicly, I no longer had a guilty pleasure; I realized all of my pleasures were guilty. I didn’t have any interests I expressed publicly, I never let myself enjoy anything that could have been perceived as uncool. God forbid it was out of the boundaries of the act I had so meticulously crafted for my peers. I was a careless and crass, yet intelligent, club president who led my team to nationals twice. Why would I share my fondness of One Direction and My Little Pony with my very cool, metalhead, niche movie loving girlfriend?
I still remember how she tried to comfort me, reminding me that she was lame too. She spent far too much of her freetime playing retro computer games and magnet fishing. It didn’t help though, I could never see her as lame, even if she wore the same outfit in a different shade of black everyday, she wasn’t boring. She was authentically herself, at least she was with me. I was never authentic with anyone, and when I was, it was a palatable and digestible form of me I created.
Whenever someone gets close enough to see me, I either add another wall or completely abandon them. So many people have versions of me that don’t exist outside of our interactions. I don’t need anyone to know any truth behind me. I’ve been told time and time again, “You could walk out of a conversation with someone’s life story while they never even got your name.” At first I took that with pride, now I realize I’ve subconsciously learned how to make myself a mirror in conversations. I’m not sure how to feel about that.
My main point was that I stopped letting myself like things. I only share what I think is okay for people to know, I fear people learning even the smallest of truths about me. I preemptively block people on social media in hopes that they won’t see that I have an account. I private every playlist so no one will know what I listen to. I only post every three or four months so no one gets tired of me. I make sure I’ve changed a lot since anyone has last seen me. I don’t want people I know to know me. At the sametime, I want everyone to think of me, to see what I put on display for them and to appreciate it. You’re only allowed so much of me, so enjoy it.
I never really ended up sharing myself with my ex-girlfriend. When I tried to express my love for my favorite book at the time, Normal People by Sally Rooney, she ended up asking me, albeit jokingly, why I would buy book porn. Similarly, when I tried talking about Brokeback Mountain, she asked me why I liked the gay horse sex movie. So maybe she wasn’t the best person for my first attempt at sharing. (On the brightside, later on in life, a kind butch lesbian would send me videos of Ennis and Jack because it made them think of me! Sweet!) (However, that didn’t last at all).
Overall, I have always kept my interest very close to my chest. I’m humiliated by the idea that someday, my enjoyment of reading lesbian anthologies will be used against me. So many people already don’t like me. I’m afraid that if people really get to know me, they still won’t like me. The thought of people not liking the facade is fine; thinking that people could hate the real, honest, and vulnerable me is mortifying.
Maybe I’m selfish for it, maybe it’s self-destructive, maybe I need to relearn myself. I need to let myself like things, allow myself to be a human with interests and hobbies that I like; instead of hobbies I’ve deemed appropriate for the persona I display. Why should I feel shame for being a human who has human experiences and emotions? I am not a one dimensional character in the background of everyone else’s story, I am myself. I like things and that’s okay. I only have so much time in this life, so why am I spending it trying to make others think I’m normal?
Even after all of that is said, I think I’ll still hide myself, I think that’s easier. I am cringe, but I am not free.
Strangers Days 