Faking It
Someone once told me when I was feeling down that I needed to "fake it, till I make it." Good advice I thought and I have done my best to do just that. Today I realized that I needed to reconcile something... what happens when you realize that most of your life is "fake?"
Recently, at a friend’s wedding, I saw this particular look she gave her new husband. One of pure joy. I’ve seen this look many times in the face of others at similar joyous moments and have even known some to not only have joyous moments but lifetimes of joy. I marvel at these people, and upon seeing my friend, I realized that my insides were bleeding as I struggled to put forth a smile, because I don’t believe I have enjoyed such a moment. Such a contradictory reaction to the reality of the moment. So, perhaps the next logical question is… what is real?
Sometimes I joke and prod about life, but I’m not sure I’ve ever exposed my real thoughts about love and joy on this blog or in general… I am somewhat reluctant because over the years and especially more recently, each time I have, it has resulted in pain and regret.
To be honest, I really don’t know what being in love feels like; I only know what it feels like to love someone. I have sat on the sidelines for years silently loving men and living in a world of constant reprove. After failed attempts to make something work, I have accepted that the men I love don't love me back, but the chambers of my heart have me imprisoned in reformative self-abuse. I hear the reasons they give, I try to humbly accept the critique and change, but it has come at a cost.
The few men I have loved, I’ve done so with shortcomings and all because love is all encompassing for me. However, because I have never been loved in such a way, I have refracted that to mean I am not a lovable person, thus leaving me alone. Ironically, loneliness is my worst fear. Worse than that is to be alone with someone you hate. Perhaps that's why loneliness for me is excruciating. I'm alone with myself... and because I am the reason why I'm alone,... I am the one person I truly despise. This is the feeling I have run from all my life. In every way I try to neutralize it or distract myself from it, however… there are some days I am left to face it. In every way possible, this is my demon.
For years I’ve wondered what the point of “faking it” is, and it wasn’t until now that I realized that I fake it because I believe it is possible to “make it” however faint that glimmer is. The act of continued displaced optimism is to say that you believe that there is a reason to be optimistic despite the conditions of reality. That the demon in hot pursuit is not the real you, but rather a byproduct of limited eternal perspective or fear. Faking it is not a disillusioned attempt to evade reality, but rather a calculated witness that you choose to fight for purpose, for hope, and for happiness.
Perhaps I do live a life of manufactured joy… or at best manufactured contentment. But the "manufactured" part is a testament of my will. Alone, reality could not produce this, and perhaps it is not authentic at the time, but it is mine. What I choose to be. That alone is reason enough for me to take great pride in the fact that “I’m fake.”
Recently, at a friend’s wedding, I saw this particular look she gave her new husband. One of pure joy. I’ve seen this look many times in the face of others at similar joyous moments and have even known some to not only have joyous moments but lifetimes of joy. I marvel at these people, and upon seeing my friend, I realized that my insides were bleeding as I struggled to put forth a smile, because I don’t believe I have enjoyed such a moment. Such a contradictory reaction to the reality of the moment. So, perhaps the next logical question is… what is real?
Sometimes I joke and prod about life, but I’m not sure I’ve ever exposed my real thoughts about love and joy on this blog or in general… I am somewhat reluctant because over the years and especially more recently, each time I have, it has resulted in pain and regret.
To be honest, I really don’t know what being in love feels like; I only know what it feels like to love someone. I have sat on the sidelines for years silently loving men and living in a world of constant reprove. After failed attempts to make something work, I have accepted that the men I love don't love me back, but the chambers of my heart have me imprisoned in reformative self-abuse. I hear the reasons they give, I try to humbly accept the critique and change, but it has come at a cost.
The few men I have loved, I’ve done so with shortcomings and all because love is all encompassing for me. However, because I have never been loved in such a way, I have refracted that to mean I am not a lovable person, thus leaving me alone. Ironically, loneliness is my worst fear. Worse than that is to be alone with someone you hate. Perhaps that's why loneliness for me is excruciating. I'm alone with myself... and because I am the reason why I'm alone,... I am the one person I truly despise. This is the feeling I have run from all my life. In every way I try to neutralize it or distract myself from it, however… there are some days I am left to face it. In every way possible, this is my demon.
For years I’ve wondered what the point of “faking it” is, and it wasn’t until now that I realized that I fake it because I believe it is possible to “make it” however faint that glimmer is. The act of continued displaced optimism is to say that you believe that there is a reason to be optimistic despite the conditions of reality. That the demon in hot pursuit is not the real you, but rather a byproduct of limited eternal perspective or fear. Faking it is not a disillusioned attempt to evade reality, but rather a calculated witness that you choose to fight for purpose, for hope, and for happiness.
Perhaps I do live a life of manufactured joy… or at best manufactured contentment. But the "manufactured" part is a testament of my will. Alone, reality could not produce this, and perhaps it is not authentic at the time, but it is mine. What I choose to be. That alone is reason enough for me to take great pride in the fact that “I’m fake.”
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