It is so very hard to see yourself through the eyes of people who think they know you. It’s like looking through a prism, or a muddy window. You know what you SHOULD be seeing, the landscape you’ve viewed every day for most of your life. You think you know the heights and the valleys, the sunshine and the darkness that you’re composed of.
And then you see yourself through the eyes of family. Of people who need you to be what they think you are. And the hills and valleys, the light and dark, become a foreign landscape. That tree didn’t used to be so tall, that stream was 5ft to the left last time you looked. Your mind tries to make sense of what it’s seeing, scrambling to keep up with the changes, to provide reason and context for them. It pulls from a stagnant reservoir, 10 years untouched, of memory and sensation. And, finally, you have this new view of yourself. You look in the mirror and you see what they see. But it’s muddled and confusing. It’s terrifying, like looking in a funhouse mirror you didn’t realize was there.
But it makes them so happy, to see what they need to see. It must be right, this knowledge of you they carry around in their memories. After all, they knew you best, watched you grow, saw the things that shaped you into the person you are. They are you, in the ways that count. They shaped you, you shaped them. Your landscape is their backyard.
And you start to question what is real. Is your knowledge of self really so sacrosanct, so unimpeachable? You may very well just think that it’s not foolish, unearned pride that drives your need to be true to yourself. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you have to lie to yourself in order to be happy away from what they believe. How can you be happy, be an adult, if you don’t have what they have? And even as you say that, even as you write it out in the hope that seeing it will show you just how ridiculous that thought is, you slide an inch closer to truly believing it.
Because they lived in the house you grew up in. They looked out the same windows you did, they saw the same world. And they all came to the same conclusion. You chose to walk away from the shapes and foundations of youth, to create your own path and craft your own landscape. You love the road you walked to get to wherever it is you’re going. The act of walking away is all that mattered, not the destination. Is that not weakness?
When you see yourself through the eyes of family, it’s impossible to not agree.
And then you see yourself through the eyes of family. Of people who need you to be what they think you are. And the hills and valleys, the light and dark, become a foreign landscape. That tree didn’t used to be so tall, that stream was 5ft to the left last time you looked. Your mind tries to make sense of what it’s seeing, scrambling to keep up with the changes, to provide reason and context for them. It pulls from a stagnant reservoir, 10 years untouched, of memory and sensation. And, finally, you have this new view of yourself. You look in the mirror and you see what they see. But it’s muddled and confusing. It’s terrifying, like looking in a funhouse mirror you didn’t realize was there.
But it makes them so happy, to see what they need to see. It must be right, this knowledge of you they carry around in their memories. After all, they knew you best, watched you grow, saw the things that shaped you into the person you are. They are you, in the ways that count. They shaped you, you shaped them. Your landscape is their backyard.
And you start to question what is real. Is your knowledge of self really so sacrosanct, so unimpeachable? You may very well just think that it’s not foolish, unearned pride that drives your need to be true to yourself. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you have to lie to yourself in order to be happy away from what they believe. How can you be happy, be an adult, if you don’t have what they have? And even as you say that, even as you write it out in the hope that seeing it will show you just how ridiculous that thought is, you slide an inch closer to truly believing it.
Because they lived in the house you grew up in. They looked out the same windows you did, they saw the same world. And they all came to the same conclusion. You chose to walk away from the shapes and foundations of youth, to create your own path and craft your own landscape. You love the road you walked to get to wherever it is you’re going. The act of walking away is all that mattered, not the destination. Is that not weakness?
When you see yourself through the eyes of family, it’s impossible to not agree.
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