Who Are You When You’re Not Pretending?

Who Are You When You’re Not Pretending?

By: Taisja Harrell | 2024

Upholstered into the fabric of my mind,
Woven into the depths of my being—
Who am I when I am not pretending?
And who are others when they are not pretending?

It’s mortifying to think that you may never have truly met anyone. To never really know who they are, yet somehow, they become an integral part of your life—for better or worse. More often, it’s for worse because you’re meeting their representative—the mask.

I’ve learned to hate.

From observation, the representative is often shaped by a parental figure they hold in high regard, with all their flaws. Or, it’s an attempt to be the opposite of that figure, unaware they’re repeating the same patterns—running fast in place.

The representative looks into my eyes, shares smiles, laughs, happiness, and trauma. I listen, captivated by their stories, wondering if they’re true. Are these stories genuinely theirs, or just fragments of half-truths?

I’ve learned to protect.

The most terrifying part of trusting others is believing what they tell you. To doubt myself and take someone else’s word over my own has never sat well with me—and it never will. How could I not trust my mind? The strongest organ in my body, capable of conceiving ideas, detecting patterns, and steering me through life, doesn’t lead me astray. Yet, their representative counts on my doubt. They bank on me silencing my intuition, hoping I’ll separate from myself.

I’ve learned to discern.

I observe the representatives of others, trying to uncover the “why,” the “how,” and the “who.”
I listen to their stories, smile, empathize, and ask questions. My questions summon the person behind the mask, drawing them from their hiding place, encouraging them to emerge.

But they’re afraid. Afraid of me, of the world, of being perceived. Most of all, they’re afraid of being awake. When the lights come on, the critters scatter, retreating to the darkness.

There are consequences. Move too fast, and they withdraw. Move too slow, and the representative believes they’ve shown you enough.

Resentment follows when the mask comes off. It’s like walking into someone’s house without knocking and seeing their mess. They don’t hate the mess—they hate that you see it. They despise that you’ve seen beyond the veil and resent you even more for accepting their perceived flaws.

I’ve learned to accept.

Once I discover the mess, I sit with it. I make them comfortable with my comfort in their chaos, watching them fidget as I remain still. I don’t focus on any specific part of the mess, so they never know what I’ve noticed. I simply wait.

Eventually, they might ask me to help clean it. If they don’t, that’s okay. I offer gentle guidance, giving them the sense that the idea to tidy up was theirs. Over time, they get used to cleaning their mess on their own.

Other times, they resent me for wanting to help. They hate that I’ve accepted the mess because they’ve spent so long crafting their representative—the perfect version of themselves.
“How dare you love my mess? How dare you reject who I was pretending to be? How dare you see in me what I refuse to see?”

But really, their resentment whispers: “How dare you turn on the light.”

I’ve learned to help.

But sometimes, the representative is so well-crafted, I miss it. Like a tailored suit, they wear it with confidence, every detail impeccably placed. They strut in it, secure in their illusion.

Once they’ve convinced me, they become integral to my life. Then, when the veil slips, I spend endless time wondering where I missed the cues.

The truth is, sometimes there are no cues.

Yours Truly,
The Representative