by Marc Alexander Valle
I’m not sure I believe in a “true self.” I think we create roles, ones we switch between from day to day and moment to moment. But if I were to cite a time when I was most happy, it would be age twelve in 1992. I still remember feeling many of the negative things that would plague me for most of my life – being misunderstood, believing I was different from others, and perhaps feeling a little lost – but I had friends. Good friends. And we worried about nothing and feared even less – speeding down tall hill-ramps on our bikes, playing football pre-injured, trying to cross Route 22 on foot to make a shortcut to the mall. The present moment was infinite that summer, and I didn’t need trips to the beach or vacations to Disney World. I had time, and I had my boys. And then there were the all’s-well-that-ends-well TV sitcoms. And there were dreams of being Spielberg. And there was the last great hurrah of rock and roll music. And the pressure to be liked was minimal compared to what it would be in the following years. I was more relaxed when it came to self-image and self-concept. Most of us kids were in that era. But the monster of popularity had yet to emerge from the bogs of the world and the halls of high school. I was very safe and protected in my childhood, which, in some ways, might have ill-prepared me for my teens and early adult years. So as I was saying, I don’t believe in a true self. There’s only the version you’re most comfortable with. It’s a job, keeping that person accessible and alive when other people have contradictory interests and ideas, but it’s worth the struggle. And I have no regrets, tending to that ember, no matter what messages the world has given me.
Mavthewriter 