everyone's so fake, me included

take it off, take it off, take it off

i went out a few nights ago, which for me is already headline-worthy.

it was supposed to be fun. i’d planned it weeks ago with this friend i met a few months back. “friend” is an enormous overstatement but let’s use it for the sake of this story. when we made the plan, i was excited—naïve of me—as the day came closer, i secretly hoped she would cancel. she didn’t.

of course, it was pouring. the one time i step out of my room, the sky decides to cry with me. i stood in front of my closet for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, pulling things out and putting them back, trying to find something that said “i’m still trying to make an effort.” while unconsciously rearranging my closet, i realized i really have nothing to wear to go out at night, which just shows how unused i am to nightlife. life in general, really, but that’s another story. i settled on a black shirt and pleated skirt. the kind of outfit that doesn’t say much of anything, which felt appropriate. also, i haven’t worn a skirt in ages, and i loved it.

we met early, arrived at the event first, and i quickly realized i was the only one without a costume. halloween-themed, of course—it was the night after the 31st, so it was predictable. but as i said, i don’t have much to wear for a simple night out, imagine a whole costume. i’ve never even celebrated halloween, so i don’t have costumes for the “spookiest night of the year.” just a simple mask, and that i wore—the mask of someone who is used to it. everyone else had committed to the theme: fake blood, cat ears, elaborate makeup. i looked like i’d wandered into the wrong party, which, in a way, i had. i always feel like i’m wandering into the wrong party. i always lose the path. i’ve never even started on the right one.

the organizers were two girls who seemed to think they were the main attraction. full of themselves, competitive, fake smiles, all “so glad you came,” as if. they moved through the bar like they owned it. in some way one of them was a habituée at that particular bar—she knew the waiters and all.

as more people arrived, i stayed close to my friend and another girl, counting the hours until midnight when i could escape like cinderella. leave the shoe, keep the peace, go home. but before i could, i had to sit through it all. and live the whole experience, and i mean all.

i watched them greet people with exaggerated enthusiasm, secretly relieved no one had shown up wearing the same costume.

me? oh, i just got “and your costume?”

i don’t understand that energy. why do we, women, sometimes treat each other like rivals in a contest no one ever signed up for? we talk about sisterhood and feminism, about lifting each other up, yet half the wounds we carry were inflicted by each other.

i’m not a hugger unless it’s someone i truly know. these weren’t those people. but i smiled, pretended, performed. because that’s what you do, right? you wear the mask. you become what the room needs you to be. friendly but not too eager. interesting but not too intense. present but not too much. it’s exhausting, this constant calibration, adjusting yourself like a radio dial trying to find the right frequency.

they say it’s hard to make friends as an adult. it is, it really is. maybe it’s because no one wants to be real anymore, myself included. if people saw who i really am they would definitely leave.

me too, i would—but you know, i’m stuck with her.

so i don’t show it. most of us don’t. especially women. we’ve learned to be careful. too sensitive, you’re a crybaby. too strong, you’re a bitch. too honest, you’re “too much.” so we sculpt ourselves into something presentable. we become statues. pretty, polite, unreadable.

and then there’s small talk, the worst kind of noise. someone asked me what i do. i told them i’m still at university studying literature, and it was kind of strange because at one point—i don’t even remember how—someone asked our ages, and i found out one of the organizers was younger than me. and i had, of course, to use the card: oh, but before this i studied medicine. they got to hear my socially “acceptable” excuse for why i’m still at university and not working, why i’m older than the organizers and don’t have friends, don’t have a boyfriend, cannot stay in society at all. they nodded, already looking past me at whoever just walked in. i’ve learned to recognize that look, the one that says you’re not interesting enough to hold their attention.

and maybe i’m not. i got used to knowing i’m not.

people ask questions but don’t really listen. “how are you?” “good, you?” “good.” a script we’ve all memorized. you answer, and you can tell they’re just waiting for their turn to speak, already composing their response before you’ve finished your sentence. and i wondered, does anyone actually care about the other? or are we all just taking turns, waiting for our moment to be interesting, to be seen, to matter for five minutes before the attention moves to someone else?

later on, someone told a story about their summer in greece. how they cheated, i mean cheated, on their boyfriend. but you know, it was just a thing. just a summer fling. what? and she went on to explain the whole affair in vivid detail, and the others leaned in, fascinated, already mentally filing it away to gossip about later. maybe to get ideas on how to do it themselves too.

this is a whole other point about morals, but i couldn’t stop thinking about my own experience from this summer. no, i didn’t cheat. but there was this taken man—he had a girlfriend—who went full on flirting with me. and i have to admit, it was fun at first, watching him try that hard. the attention felt good in that shallow, temporary way. but then i thought about her. the girlfriend. some girl i’d never met who was probably at home thinking everything was fine.

i don’t know, maybe i’m just too sensitive, but how could i even do that to another girl? first of all, he wasn’t my type at all. but beyond that—i wouldn’t like it done to me, so why would i do it to another woman? for what? just to feel wanted for five minutes?

the sisterhood we talk about is so fragile. we say we support each other, but then we turn around and betray each other for the most meaningless reasons. and everyone at that table, listening to the greece story, was nodding along like it was some amusing anecdote. and i watched it happen like i was watching a play. everyone in their costumes, in their masks. the performer and the audience, both playing their roles.

when i walked home later that night, the rain had stopped. the streets were still wet, reflecting orange streetlights in puddles i stepped over carefully. but as you know, life doesn’t play fair, so a car splashed water on my pleated skirt. was i angry? not at all. just ready for the night to be over. by the time i got home, i was drained. like every ounce of energy had been sucked out by the artificial atmosphere.

i passed a group of people smoking outside a bar, their laughter loud and loose. for a moment, i envied them. that ease, that ability to just be in the moment without analyzing every interaction. or maybe they’re analyzing too, just better at hiding it.

i realized, again, that i’ve never really fit into groups. one-on-one, i might be able to go deep, connect—but, of course, only if the atmosphere is the right one. but in groups, everything feels fake. even in school, i saw those big friend groups, people who secretly hate each other but stay together because they’re terrified of being alone.

and i was alone. i have been for a long time. and at some point, i started to like it.

then the scary thought creeps in: what if i never meet someone i’d rather spend time with than myself? what if even with him, i’ll still perform? what if i’m the fake one?

my established impossibility to fit into society. the herculean struggle to find other people and just be me. the way i have to always explain—no, i don’t have any plans because i don’t have many friends. yes, i go back to my birth city, where i grew up. because if i tell people that, then aren’t i strange?

and i’m tired of masks. i don’t possess costumes, but masks? oh, i have plenty.

part of me still hopes to find him. the one who takes my mask off too.

take it off, take it off, take it off.

someone who doesn’t need me to perform. who understands that silence isn’t awkward, it’s just another way of being comfortable. who asks “how are you?” and actually waits for the real answer, knowing i won’t give it first. i’ll say fine every time. and if you stop there, it’s fine. but if you push deeper, if you try to search the abyss, then the monster comes out. and he won’t flinch. he’ll look at the monster and recognize it as human. as me.

someone who knows that “i’m fine” means “i’m barely holding it together, but i don’t want to burden you with me.” and instead of accepting the lie, sits down anyway.

i write all this like i’m waiting for him to appear. like the problem is just finding the right person. but what if the problem is me?

when will i take the mask off? the thought of being truly intimate with another person—really intimate, where they see all of me—i can’t even form it completely. it dissolves before it fully takes shape, like trying to hold smoke. why can’t i be with other human beings the way they seem to be with each other? why can’t i just be me, with anyone?

the dread of it is choking me whole. i’m driving the knife over and over into the mask, trying to pry it off, but it won’t fall. it’s stuck.

take it off, take it off, take it off.