I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM, SO PLEASE STOP ASKING ME

I am turning 21 in a month, In this anguish I write some reflections. 

*it's supposed to be a take on Picasso

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The empty stage is before me, and behind the curtain, I am shaking. 

After rehearsing for hours- these lines appear all wrong- but it’s now too late to change them. 

I know what they want; it’s simple enough: 1. Make them laugh, 2. envelop them with my insightful words, and 3. Make them love me.

I must have been able to do this before, or, why would they buy a ticket to my show? But I cannot recall- who was the version of myself most beloved or what it was that she did. Could I repeat that energy without boring or disappointing, or would they catch that whatever was once intriguing was not a skill but luck?  

When I step on stage, under the white lights- and the horrifying silence of being watched consumes me, I can only approach the mic and remind myself to appear confident. I tap the mic, testing… one, two.. ehem…“Is this thing on?” 

Amidst the performance, I lose awareness- struggle, speak without thought- hit and miss- then look up to see what they thought.

Now that it is over, I realize nobody was in the crowd. -

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Hello! ./ (hey?), my name is Carly. I am 5’7 and a half!  While I used to hate my height, I have now grown fond of it. I am first of my name, eldest daughter, anointed after a McDonald’s employee whose warm greeting to my father amid a morning coffee run confirmed to him that, hey, the name on her badge, “carly,” would be a nice name for the little girl, who his wife was carrying.

I don’t know what else people expect me to say, but I am constantly disappointing in the performances I dish out. If I were a movie, letterboxed would proclaim: 

Carly Campbell, 2003          

The Directorial Debut of Harry and Nidia Campbell                Comedy, Tragedy 

Six reviews 

⭐⭐⭐“cute, dorky coming of age”

⭐⭐⭐ “A little annoying but in the way all 20-year-olds are.”

 ⭐⭐ “A lot of passion- but with no direction in where to put it.” 

⭐⭐ “a wannabe cult classic indie fluff film. With a trying-to-be niche soundtrack and predictable cinematic style, it screams desperate.” 

⭐ “Not my proudest jerk. “ REDACTED 

⭐⭐ “Overall, the one-liners which somewhat carried the film- are nothing better than journal entries 12 year old girls post to Pinterest. Forgettable”

…..Aside from the melodrama, I am quite irritated that this “obsession-with-my-identity thing” has not faded after age 14 as they said it would. Logical realization: no one cares what I do, but still, confidence talks in the mirror can only prepare you in theory until the lights are on you and you grow anxious because you still want to be liked. You simply cannot ignore that the audience must be expecting something. Really, “being unapologetically myself” fails to amend my discomfort in front of others because, no matter how hard I try, I am not even sure who I am. 

Identity is such a weird thing. 

I don’t think I have ever recognized this girl in the mirror as me since I was a kid, and that was because, back then, I was the only one I ever knew. I can play my tiny violin and say I had a lonely childhood, but I had confidence despite my lack of companions. When I was young, I could recognize myself in some state of uncontradicted purity- having never faced the editing process that is social exposure. Free from that “double consciousness” of being both a subject and object, I could see myself with the unjudgmental empathy now only afforded to others. 

So, now, finding myself at a loss for this “true self” through my aging existence, I search for her through anecdotes and memories, asking other people for pieces to rebuild a whole. I go backwards because I could trust her authenticity, as the things she liked were mainly just because and never because of something or someone else. 

I remember being headstrong and opinionated, my parent’s worst nightmare for her unrelenting desire to talk and ask “why,” repeating jokes twice and louder- when no one laughed. I was not yet bullied, so that uninhibited expressiveness, which is honestly quite annoying, never appeared to be why, when I asked kids at the park to “please play with me,” not everyone wanted to be my friend. 

I barely remember what the inside of my head looked like, just where it took me. I spent little time reflecting, too busy jumping from passion to passion. Free time was clustered up in my school library, past the bell, asking the librarian if any new dinosaur books had come in yet- because I had read our existing stock. Other pastimes included learning Star Wars lore better to develop the backstory of my Jedi trainee daydreams- (I was a female pod-racer in tattooine and a descendant of a Sith bloodline, who had the force and went off with Anakin to hone my existing talents. I also had a purple lightsaber). 

While generally inconsistent, as any child is free to be, I gravitated towards specific interests I still love and cherish fondly. 

She enjoyed reading more than anything. Once my father began sitting beside me before bed with a book, I desired nothing else from life but to learn to read. I had already lived in the clouds, so the books directed my travels to these mystical, unknown places, which taught me how to feel. I was like a blank colouring sheet desperate to be painted so that every tale told was an explosion of saturation, a first touch with the magnificence of narrative creation. 

I still remember the storybooks that raised me, the ones I would beg my dad to please read again because, no, I know I heard it before, but this one is really good. 

There was this story of the aurora borealis, the pastel pages of red and yellow which flipped to the painted night sky. I remember the story of the two bears, the brothers, how one travelled while the other preferred to stay home. The travelling bear always remembered to send back postcards while the home bear collected maple syrup, making snow angels as the seasons changed. These, among others, are clear as if I lived within them, not outside- in my pink bedroom- sat next to my dad, amongst many stuffed friends. 

Picture books soon became books with chapters I could understand all by myself, and I was so proud to carry around my first book with no pictures! But the words were just as vivid, and I felt fonder of the images inside them, for others did not paint them- but I crafted them. 

I also loved music. I remember my first song, at least the one that woke my memory to recall them—walking on sunshine, played in my father’s office. A crowded room, and amid the cluster of the corner desk was his jet-black, giant stereo crammed in the corner. I would sneak into his workspace to listen alongside him, and he knew to play for me this Sunshine song because that one was my favourite. My first birthday parties were a blur of me crouched near the speaker, trying to understand the lyrics of Hotel California, whose words I felt boggled by -and give her a break because she was like six years old. 

So then, maybe because it was the only time I was quiet, I would be invited to join my dad in the basement of our second home, where he transported the magic CD player where it could roar to the height of its glory. It held what must have been a million albums, and with a click of a button, they would whirl around before landing on a song, as the blue block letters would confirm the title. I remember when the songs would get louder, amid his teaching of classic rock, and father would inform me, “you have to move your head like this,” shaking his already dwindling hair, or what he called headbanging. I would mimic and my father nodded in approval, “a future punk in the making.”  

So when I learned to play the piano, it was only because I wanted to be a guitar player, like Jimmy Hendrix, but Dad said I had to do it properly and learn piano first. 

I played pretend in my grandmother’s garden and travelled valiantly into the headquarters of the villains I would conquer, playing with toy cars as if they were people. The purple one was always me, while the red one was always the mean one with a soft spot, who would eventually become purple’s best friend. *(I have a weird obsession with the angry one, which I need psychoanalysis for probably) 

This is all to say I don’t know what exactly I was, little me- I just know I miss her- that she was so passionate and never worried that what she did was wrong. The novelty of such memories imbue me with a devotion to the me now, in her honour. 

Identity is weird, though; yes, that was me- I can talk about her with a sense of detached pride, but I don’t know how or when she lost her grip over my thoughts. It’s hard to retain innocence, but even harder to keep yourself. I can recall this golden age of early youth in rose-coloured glasses, sympathizing with the girl frolicking in fantasy land, but I now recognize a level of unretained innocence. To just dream without knowing where to stop and plan the future without adhering to the regrets of the past is a privilege of youth. 

Other people change your identity, and when I became an older sister, I changed. 

It is not a bad thing. The lonely dreamer was ecstatic to have a cute and tiny playmate- and maybe she scratched me- but I helped pick her name- and I was going to be the best big sister in the world. So, I learned to love for, to change myself in that love. 

I had the sibling that the bear of my favourite book had, so I couldn’t wait to sleep in the bed next to her as they did- and write her a part in my Star Wars roleplay (as maybe a droid or something secondary). But the space between two people is a new realm of self you can’t control and you must eventually consider how the other sees you. I, of course, wanted to be an excellent big sister, so I tried my best to be good, even when I had to play as a kitty, not a Jedi- because she did not like Star Wars. I had to compromise on what movies we picked and let go of some self-importance. 

To grow is to become more selfless, but it makes identification with some “you” in the mirror much more complicated to grasp. I don’t think we are better off in the daydream of our childhood creation, where the sun and stars revolve around us. Yet, you shrink in this middle, and as you lose control- you change. 

Entering the great unknown of society-  you start to think of yourself through how others treat you. Maybe I liked playing spy- but the kids at school I wanted to play with maybe didn’t. No one wanted to play in my fantasy roles as the characters I wrote for them, and that was a difficult pill to swallow. 

I remember wanting friends so badly but thinking I was great; the best way to do so was by talking and sharing so much of myself. I thought loving her just couldn’t be ignored. So, it comes as a shock when you are. 

Carly, the storyteller, was my next step in selfhood. I recall modifying the “play pretend” narratives, eventually succeeding in looping the recess loners into my world. I remember attempting to corral an audience (usually it would be of one poor classmate) to fill their ears with stories I built and wanted to share. Having watched Stand by Me for the first time, I wanted to be the boy with the best stories, if not daring. 

Mama, I want to be a writer when I grow up.

When they listened, other people gave me this desire to share my dreamlands for how happy it made me to loop them into my worlds. It was not easy to get people to hear you- and stay,  so I wanted to become - a change from a state where I was satisfied to just be. 

Relationships take time from your aloneness, so you create a mixture between you, unchallenged- to you that others see- by making them liked. 

I had friends, though and while I was maybe called annoying for a while, it wasn’t until the age of, “oh my god/boy classmate number 5/ was telling his friend how he “jerked off” became girls’ recess gossip (and I asked, “what is that?”  as every young girl probably once has)- that I recognized a second condition to identity, I am a girl.   

The introduction of my female identity entered once people were conscious of romantic connection. Dating, attraction- all that jazz- I had a new consideration for my audience: one must be liked- and a girl wanted. 

I was much slower than others in learning my place in line, learning how even to consider the qualifications of femininity. I was dorky and childish amongst quickly maturing friends and failing to follow the new rules- I found myself strangely always omitted from sleepover invites. One day, I realized I was being laughed at and not with, while the boys who used to be my friends never cared to speak to me anymore- and eventually, feeling rejected- I didn’t want to be. Why oh why did my hair not dry straight as the other girls and curse these damn glasses!

It’s harder to like yourself when you live with others, and they don’t. When it is a rejection so quickly received from appearance- I wanted to change this part, so they would at least want to meet the “real me.” In the meantime, I would retreat from reality more often to inner daydreams like always, but it is never as fulfilling once you know others are around, or life can be a daydream- as unpredictable and fun as found in books.

I can fast forward through years of self-reflection turned hatred and attempts at self-love fueled by envy of others. Those obsessive makeovers, like no contacts, or stop wearing those weird graphic t-shirts from Walmart. I stole mascara or made my mom buy me leggings, and I stopped talking so much. I lost myself somewhere along this attempt to be taken seriously- to be seen for me was overruled by a desire to be loved- and the sheer isolation of such complex desires created a division between the self I once loved and the one I should be. 

At some point, exhausted of it all- I stopped yearning, accepted grief- and began to prefer the freedom of being unseen- at all. This was different, though, because left alone- I hated her, mimicking the judgement of others, to be alone was always worse. 

The coward hides in her room to recapture girlish daydreams where no one can hurt or hate her.

Then, the coward would prefer to cease existing. 

The audience…. yes…. this grand stage where I perform, it taunts me. 

I used to live in narratives, but I must now create them in an attempt of good reviews. We are aware of the fourth wall, and I act. 

I know of at least three versions of this self now. Funny carly- not exactly witty but stupid, like a character slipping on a banana peel for a joke… she embodies my middle school value- for being funny to look at and laugh at, but no, she isn’t loved. Negative carly,  the emo inversion of the once optimist. “Ughhhhhh, everyone sucks, and god is dead,” she imbues onto everything. How judgementally she stands in the corner of my mind, rolling her eyes at every little thing I say- “You thought that was so funny?” I also see the dreamer- ah, whatever is left of childhood me rotting away in the corner- chained by my emo self. She whimpers our dreams in a choke, which becomes melodramatic. I build my dreamlands, but why is my Jedi universe now a meadow of rosebushes and anguish, unrequited love?

Who am I amongst conflicting definitions or the active desire to be liked?  I don’t know. I don’t know at all, and maybe no one does. Asking itself attempts to cage a transient existence into a consumable display. Carly! The 20-year-old model of this doll is .. insecure, witty, and sad, yet she still likes to read and is now weirdly obsessed with politics and philosophy. 

My identity is not hidden behind a locked door; underneath my skin, it is not something I may explain. My self is scattered across the people I live with, in pages of old notebooks and words I once said and remembered. My identity, I must acknowledge, belongs to others. My memories, love, and passions, though, belong to me.

While I have changed, I can open my diary to any old passage since 2017 and find the same unmistakable angst - this yearning- which, albeit insufferable- is somewhat lasting- amidst a language I’ve grown to adopt- slightly aware of itself as corny- and maybe I am in there somewhere.

I would kill to read the book I wrote about a tsunami when I was 10. 

In identity obsession, you forget that what made childhood so fun was the lack of concern for other’s opinions. Recently, I have discovered that “being yourself” does not involve treating everyone as obstructions to the real you but forgetting yourself and resolving to belong to the people you get a brief moment amongst. 

I was joyful in childhood for reading everything and finding joy in each journey, but I also re-read and tried to understand the pages I felt found in. People are similar. It’s weird how when you care about identity, obsession with self-worth constructs others as mere means to your end of self-acceptance- which negates their intrinsic quality- beauty and identity.  

I like to think of everyone as books or songs. I could never dream of creating myself- but before me- a chance to open my eyes through another- hear and see them. I love walking through library aisles and glimpsing the cries of humanity through each published piece. I pick a red book off the shelf and live in the world of another- take a bit of it with me. People are dying to be seen the same way you are, and you can gain more than validation from a conversation or a friend. Empathy is not pitying another but attempting to cross into their world, read their book and if not understand, enjoy the experience. 

We may walk around in something fashioned as an identity. We are all book covers and song titles on the streets- a summary, a glance. Yet we are filled with pages, and there is beauty in every genre, every unique language. I am sick of editing myself as if the critics want the same thing. I would instead prefer to read. 

The people I love are beautiful, wonderful people. Passion flows within everyone- and the ability to fall into other worlds is a connection in a way impossible from the confines of your headspace. I am a reader first, writer second; my pages are only inspired by the books I love the hardest. 

Love is our first state, not war or competition. My love created me, so I try to hang on to that directed feeling rather than claim control over the love I may attract. Whether or not people love me, I can love them; we can all be children trying to find something we care about. It is in accepting others we come to receive ourselves.