Going against what and who you are is torture

‘I am not what I am.’ These words come from Othello, a play I studied for my leaving cert. They are birthed from the most malignant villain in literature. Frightening, menacing words that could be said by every teenager in the world, and most of the adults too.

What we often get when meeting others in life is never really the truth. We get flimsy fabrications and phoney personas of a person that day. You can be a lot of things as a teenager in a restricted society. Being your real self is not one of them.

Being the first girl in the family I was expected to be pretty, graceful and intelligent. I was none of these things. At just 7 years of age I realised I had neither brains nor beauty so I should accept my lot and move on. At only 7, I couldn’t comprehend the gravity of my situation but being a pragmatic child I weighed my options. If I was not pretty there was not much I could do about that. Being rather portly with a determined squint, my face was mine, and I had to live with it. Having just mastered writing my small stubby sentences I knew academia was not my gift either. However, I realised just as I pretended to be a princess at parties I could also pretend to be perfect at popularity.

Teenagers possess a certain art at pretence but that’s not to say it’s not difficult. It is easy to fool others but you yourself are not so easily duped. It’s your conscience that gets you, that small remnant of yourself that slithers round your heart and shanks your soul.

While stale vodka trickles down your throat, your inner puritan screams. Every time a reluctant boy traipses around a rugby field, cold, wet and resentful, his inner Billy Elliot tap dances on his thoughts. Going against what and who you are is torture. But still we carry our lie as gargoyles masquerading as angels with our leathery wings painted white.

This is the ultimate difficulty we face when trying to understand our true nature. We have a whole world to examine and endless possibilities to try. Instead we are taped up, shoved into a box and expected to sit down, shut up and be the person we were assigned. If I was never given the opportunity to meet my true self how can you possibly expect me to be her?

This year I applied for colleges and poured through books to see what I wanted for my future. At last the choice was mine and it was only through questioning what I wanted I realised I didn’t know at all. I knew I wanted to travel though even I could figure out that that option was an escape tactic. If I was going somewhere to start afresh I wanted to go as me. I just had to find her first.

Throughout a teenagers life we are told when to wake, what to eat, what to do and not to argue. You are constantly controlled by those around you who know what’s best. I have to ask how could you know what’s best for me when none of us know who I actually am? We stick people into cookie cutter images of who they’re supposed to be. Judging a book by its cover is wrong but we’re judging a box of books by the price here and it’s dangerous.

A miracle did occur once and I was gifted a beautiful reprieve in the form of my grandmother. Through watching her Alzheimer’s increase further, I found a different woman underneath the layers society had slapped on her. She inspired and enlightened me to the horror I was putting upon myself. I no longer recognised myself in the mirror. The school had taken my weight and replaced it with highlights and pointy ribs.

Years of torture had caked makeup on my face and arms to hide the scars. Sometimes I think I was cutting down through the fragile persona to find my old self. I hope she knew I was looking even if I didn’t. She was lost, afraid and alone and yet she welcomed me. Somehow in this plastic stranger she saw herself and reminded me of forsaken dreams and forgotten plans.

You see no matter how much responsibility we hurl at the wanton ads on television or miniscule models in magazines it is not their fault that you’re hiding. As much as Freud blames mother for travesties and I blamed girls – and other teenagers – as lost as me, it was not them who prevented me from finding myself. The quest to know and express my true nature is probably something I will explore for the rest of my life, but acceptance of it is near impossible and I know I have not reached it. In the mornings my fingers itch to layer upon my war paint and face the day with whitened teeth. However the little girl inside me is proud of my nose and my squint and if I want to join her I must be too.

I am not what I am, but I am not what I was either. I am still afraid as are many teenagers. Our shield might not be strong but we are. Dig past the painted lies and immense beauty lies within and even if I do still have the squint, it is only so I can see you better.