Pretending

Pretending is a natural, important part of childhood play. It can also be an important part of survival and success. Early on, I found I could pretend my way through difficult situations. It was a skill that served me well for a long time. It was a good way to “try on” some roles and see if they fit. I suspect that many people grow up to be some of the things they pretend to be as children. It was also a good way, for me, to escape the anxiety and despair that seemed my constant companions. With my brother, Wayne, I could always pretend to be in another country, on another planet, somewhere and someone else. Most of my pretending was creative role-playing to get me through things, reframing my story so that it had a different, alternate meaning and reality. It came most naturally, for me, to pretend to be a teacher, a college student or professor, or a writer. My dolls were my students; my family was always glad to welcome me home; my stories, songs, and poems were well received. A couple of times I got hurt, because some roles actually require skill and competence that I did not possess. When I was eleven, I pretended to be Dale Evans, wife of the singing cowboy, Roy Rogers, and nearly killed myself when I fell off Daisy, the sweet mare that did not understand my commands, and later, my panic. In a gymnastics class, I pretended I was an Olympic gymnast (What was I thinking?).  In first grade, when my family moved across country from California to Tennessee, I pretended it was just a dream for as long as I could. Eventually, I had to accept that we were not in California anymore. As I got older, the pretending got complicated, frustrating, and exhausting. In new relationships, especially with the opposite sex, I pretended to be whatever they liked, athletic, intellectual, spiritual, or funny. I kept trying on roles, abandoning them, trying others, failing. The toll I paid for living like this was a crushing shame that led me into deep depression. I wish I could report that this was a brief period in my young life, but I was almost fifty before I apprehended what I needed to be free. To my surprise, it was not the love and acceptance of my family, friends, colleagues, bosses, or any other fellow traveler that turned the key that finally released me. It was ownership, acceptance, love and forgiveness for myself that was the catalyst. This blog would be much longer if I went into detail as to how I finally came to this place. Suffice it to say, it was not magic or miracle. I could, and, maybe should, write the book. However, I no longer pretend to be anything other than who and what I am. To know me, whether you love me or not, is to know me. It feels so good to breathe free.