I have lived much of my life in imaginary places. Who I am is a question I cannot answer, because all I know about myself is who I am not.
I believed I was a narcissist. Instead of seeking it through standard routes like self-harm or even the threat of self-harm, I got validation from people acknowledging my existence.
When a popular student in class said my name, I thought about it for weeks.
Nick remembered me.
My name existed in his brain.
Nick knew what I looked like.
Nick knew how my voice sounded.
After I got my driver’s license, drivers stopped behind me because I was in front of them. If I hadn’t been there, they would have kept driving.
Cashiers looked at me and acknowledged that I was next in line.
When I get a massage, I have to stop myself from apologizing for it. I tip far more than the standard for their patience.
I have been an observer all of my life. I listen to conversations around me and watch everyone who walks by. I am amazed at how many lives exist near me that I will never know.
I believed that was my role. I was not meant to experience life, only to observe it. To watch other people and imagine myself doing what they did and saying what they said.
I loved to watch.
Because watching was all that I had.
It didn’t occur to me that I was eligible for a life worthy of watching.
Sometimes the performances weren’t as quiet as I thought.
My first interview on The Ellen Show was in the fifth grade. I was a child actor, mature for my age and incredibly talented. I was special, and Ellen loved talking with me. She leaned forward and asked thoughtful questions. Then she sat back and let me answer.
I spoke for as long as I needed to. No one interrupted. No one shifted in their seat. When I said something funny, the audience laughed. When I said something honest, they applauded. The laughter always came at the right time.
I was invited back. Then invited back again. My appearances continued through middle school, through high school, and into college. The older I became, the more articulate I was. The more articulate I was, the longer they let me speak.
In middle school, I became a Major League umpire. It was the perfect career. I was close to the action but rarely part of it. People took me seriously, but they weren’t afraid to yell at me. My strike zone was steady. Predictable. Fair.
The players respected me. Their appreciation was quiet but certain. That was enough. I remained an umpire until I was twenty-seven.
In high school, I became a teacher. I taught English and Public Speaking. I stood at the front of the classroom and waited for the noise to settle. It always did.
They listened when I spoke. If someone arrived late, I paused and looked at the door. That was usually enough. When I challenged them, they rose to it.
I kept a list of their names on my desk. Eventually, I needed an online gradebook to keep track of assignments. There were too many students to remember. Too many papers to manage. Too many lives to keep track of.
I thought that when I was in my room, I was safe. Free to fantasize as much as I needed in order to go out in public the next day. I believed no one was interested in me enough to listen at the door.
I was wrong.
The night I discovered this, I was in the middle of an interview on The Tonight Show when I heard something at the door. At first it was only laughter.
My brain tried to invent other explanations. Someone in the hallway. Someone laughing. Anyone but me.
Before I turned around, I already knew what I was going to find.
The walk to the door felt longer than it should have. I didn’t want the answer, but I knew I needed it.
I looked through the peephole and saw several freshmen boys standing there, ears pressed against the wood, laughing at me.
I stepped away from the door.
They had heard everything.
It didn’t look like their first time.
One of the lives had slipped into the hall.
There was no way to spin it. I was the freak.
I agreed with them.
I knew I had done something wrong.
I just wasn’t sure what.
Most of my life has been spent learning the rules after I’ve already broken them.
It was the first time I ever seriously considered suicide.
Even then, the lives did not stop.
I only got better at hiding them.
Getting a haircut was an overwhelming experience. I loved it. I didn’t understand why I deserved that kind of attention. Who did I think I was? Once I decided I did not deserve it, I began cutting my own hair.
I never considered the possibility that I could be someone worthy of it.
As I entered my late twenties, I realized I had very few friends. I struggled to think of someone I could call if I needed help.
I never considered myself a main character in someone else’s life.
I wasn’t even a main character in my own.
I monitor and pace myself. I get excited and forget that conversation is supposed to move both ways.
I cannot recall the last time I was asked out on a second date.
They never met one person. They met a combination of people trying too hard to impress.
The transition started when I realized most people were not impressive.
Why couldn’t I?
The rehearsal had gone on long enough.
There was a day these lives finally ended.
I had no idea who I was.
I only knew who I refused to be.
Maybe I was never a narcissist.
Maybe I was just trying to understand the rules.
