I Was Playing a Character

We all code-switch. We talk differently to our boss than we do to our mother. That is normal.

But what happens when the code-switching never stops? What happens when the “Performance Self” completely consumes the “Real Self”?

I realized about three years ago that I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a character in a show called “Success.”

The Audition

The city I lived in was one giant audition.

Every conversation at a party felt like a screen test. “So, what do you do?” “Who do you know?” “Where did you summer?”

The questions weren’t about connection. They were about casting. Where do you fit in my script? Are you a lead? An extra? A villain?

To survive, I developed a Character.

The Character was wittier than me. He was more cynical. He drank darker liquor. He had strong opinions about things I didn’t actually care about (like font choices and urban zoning laws).

The Character was a hit. People loved him. He got invited to the cool parties.

But playing a character is exhausting.

The Exhaustion of Being “On”

I would come home after a night out and feel a physical ache in my chest. Not heartburn. Soul-burn.

I had spent four hours performing. I had laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny. I had nodded sagely at political takes I found shallow. I had projected an aura of “I am crushing it” while secretly worrying about my rent.

My face hurt from the fake smiling.

The scariest part was that the mask was starting to stick.

I would catch myself being The Character when I was alone. I would think cynical thoughts about a beautiful sunset. I would judge a stranger’s shoes.

I was becoming the mask.

The Backstage Area

I needed a backstage area. I needed a place where the show ended.

In the city, there is no backstage. Even the coffee shop is a stage (see: people “working” on screenplays). Even the park is a stage (see: people “exercising” in $200 yoga pants).

I realized I couldn’t just take the costume off. I had to leave the theater.

The Silence of No Audience

When I moved here, the first thing I noticed was the lack of an audience.

I walked into the local diner. I was wearing my “Cool City Guy” costume (leather jacket, aloof expression).

No one cared.

The waitress didn’t give me the “I see you” nod. She just asked if I wanted coffee. The guys at the counter didn’t assess my status. They just kept talking about fishing.

My performance fell flat.

At first, I was offended. Don’t you know I’m the main character?

But then, I felt the relief.

If there is no audience, there is no need to perform.

I slumped in the booth. I let my face go slack. I ordered the pancakes (which The Character would never eat because “carbs”).

I just ate breakfast. Like a human.

Finding the Face Beneath the Mask

It took a while to find out who I was when I wasn’t performing.

It turns out, I’m kind of boring.

I like birds. I like early mornings. I like silence. I don’t actually care about zoning laws.

The Character would hate me. He would think I gave up.

But I haven’t given up. I’ve just stopped acting.

If you feel like you are always “on”… If you feel like you have to “prepare” for a dinner with friends… If you feel like a fraud in your own life…

It’s time to exit stage left.

Find a place where the lights are dim. Find a place where there is no audience.

Take off the mask. Wash your face.

It’s okay to just be the person in the mirror.