versions of me

would you love me the same?

It was a hot Friday in the summer. Everywhere felt crowded: the streets, the station sweltering like a sauna, the subway cars. That day, I had bought an enormous sandwich from an Italian deli, zucchini and cream and sun-dried tomatoes on a square piece of focaccia. I was content despite the crowdedness of the bus, despite the oppressive heat. I found solace in the knowledge of the weekend ahead, the deliciousness of the sandwich to come, delight at the end of the tunnel.

With my headphones on, sandwich in hand, I stood in a crowded car. Next to me, there was a shorter, nerdy man with a backpack that bumped into people and Meta Ray-Ban sunglasses in front of his eyes. He had a nervous energy to him, and it annoyed me for no discernible reason. As we rolled into a station, he moved around to let people off, bumping into everyone in the process. Somehow, as he attempted to re-adjust his hold on the stanchion, he managed to slap my sandwich out of my hand and onto the ground. I’ve replayed the moment in my head dozens of times, and still can’t comprehend how it happened — it was a virtuosic feat of clumsiness. He was immediately apologetic, picking my beloved sandwich up with an incomprehensible string of apologies and handing it back to me. I said nothing, but within, I was filled with a burning rage, tinged with disgust at this man. Not just for his misstep, but for his demeanor, his obsequiousness and lack of spatial awareness.

I was shocked by this — my lack of empathy for this pitiful man was out of character for me. For a second, I felt nothing but ire toward him, and nearly a year later, I think about how strongly I felt then. In the moment, my face betrayed nothing, I said nothing, but there was such an intensity of feeling that I barely recognized myself. I think of myself as a person who will snap at people, be annoyed, but never someone who is fully consumed with rage, not over something so insignificant.

But that was me. It wasn't someone I recognized; it wasn't someone I am often; it was me, nonetheless. Each day, I am a slightly different person. I wake slowly, then suddenly, rub sleep out of my eyes, and am mostly the same in shape. But I'm temperamentally inconsistent. One day I am a cynic with a disgust for everything that isn't more sleep; another day, I see my bed as a prison keeping me from a dazzling life outside. There's Weekend Me and Weekday Me, which can be subdivided for each day of the week (Wednesday Me overflows with ennui). There's NYC Me, SF Me, Atlanta Me; Deeply Vain Mirror Selfie in the Gym Me and Self-Conscious & Self-Effacing Me; Writer Me & Napping Me & Scroller Me & Film Bro Me — and so on.

Who is the overall person? What is the summation of these many selves? Is the person I am overall defined by the person I am most often? Is it a simple calculation of average time spent as a person? Is it just the person that I am most consistently over a given period of time that rises above the rest? If this is the case, can I let this flash of rage disappear into statistical insignificance so I can hold onto the vision I hold of myself? What about the months of being grumpy that my friends and family had to endure as I prepared to move across the country?

If time is the only factor, the average would be my work persona, my sleep-deprived state, my unserious self. How could these describe my totality, though? These are familiar to me but are unknown to many. How many friends do I have that have no idea what my job is, the way I talk there? How many people have I met who have only seen me caffeinated and full of energy? How many folks have met me on a day that I'm deep in thought, without a hint of humor in my eyes? Averages are not enough to represent all that I am, the good and the bad.

In my awareness of my many selves, I can see what I am and what I have the capability of being. The flash of rage could be cultivated, I could be a deeply angry person most of the time. I fixate on this moment and all of the moments I appear to be someone that I’m afraid of becoming, as if focusing on them will ward them away like a talisman. Externally, this sort of self, and many others, is suppressed.

To you, reader, I am a prose writer. But I haven't felt like a prose writer much lately. I've been writing more poems than usual and sitting in parks. I enjoy the beauty of the spring blossoms as the plants coat me in a blanket of pollen that chokes my immune system. What does any of this mean to you who may only know the Prose Writer Me? It may dilute the image that you have of me, change what you expect from me and my work. It could mean nothing at all, but with the possibility of change, I fear this.

I fear exposing my other selves to the people I know and love in general. What are the chances that they will see me the same way after such a revelation? To have one version of a self appreciated is great, to have a few is wonderful, but to ask for someone to love all parts of a self sounds impossible, greedy. There are the normal parts of myself worth sharing (the pretentious self, the depressed sports fan, the tiramisu enjoyer) and the parts that feel shameful (the angry one, the petty fool, the vain idiot).

I imagine asking a lover, Would you love me the same way if you knew all of these selves? I ask myself, Would I ever let someone see each of these beings, these mutated forms?

But I think about the subway incident more. I remember how the klutz reminded me of younger, more awkward versions of myself. I remember how much I was thinking about the sandwich after my friend’s impassioned endorsement of it. Then a feeling of softness comes, for my hungry self that had a moment of anger. And I ask myself, Do you love me the same way knowing all of these selves? And I do.

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💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• EP - our june by AIR APPARENT - new AIR APPARENT! My brother’s latest EP that features his vocals on every track! “time heals” is my favorite.

• POEM - “Lies I’ve Told My 3 Year Old Recently” by Raul Gutierrez - “We are held together by invisible strings”