faking it (and not just in bed)
on feeling like a fish out of the water in your own company
sometimes the performance isn't moaning - it's pretending you're totally fine with yourself.
no mask, no audience, just you and your brain doing weird little dances in the dark.
welcome in. shoes off.
delusions optional.
let’s get into it.
every once in a while, someone says something on a podcast that ruins my entire week. maybe for the best. maybe not. who fucking knows.
this time, it was: “do you actually feel comfortable with your own company?”
simple. horrifying.
like someone casually asking, “hey, when was the last time you looked yourself directly in the eyes and didn’t flinch?”
and i don’t mean the performative kind of being alone.
not drinking tea in bed while rewatching fleabag.
not when i'm feeling cute and lit up and have plans later.
but when it’s quiet. the hours that stretch.
no audience, no echo, no curated version of myself to play.
just me and the unfiltered goblin version of myself - the one who refreshes spotify like it’s going to change her life, and somehow wants pasta, meaningful connections, and to disappear all at once.
i used to be terrified of her. sometimes, i still am.
of the stillness.
of the sharp edges that come up when the distractions fall away.
not like “boo!” terrified - more like oh god, it’s just me, myself, and my overactive inner dialogue again.
she’s loud. she has a lot of thoughts. she’s always like “let’s unpack this shit” at 2am.
bad thoughts pop up without warning, like - surprise!
here’s everything you said didn’t bother you from 2017, remastered in HD. enjoy :)
and unfortunately, i don’t even have a “fuck you” drawer to shove them in.
so they just hang out. not for long, but long enough to make it weird. how rude.
they float around like uninvited party guests who brought homemade guac, so now i feel bad asking them to leave.
they don’t own the room.
they just sit in the corner, eat chips too loudly, reminding me they exist.
and look, facing my thoughts as just… thoughts? not facts, not prophecies, not legally binding contracts? genuinely one of the rudest plot twists of my adult life.
shit is hard.
shit is scary.
shit is BRUTAL.
i think this is why i used to be so uncomfortable with being alone. not because i didn’t love myself or whatever self-help book logic says, but because being with myself felt like stepping into a room i didn’t decorate. like, who even lives here?
being alone is confrontational.
it’s choosing to sit with your own thoughts instead of dumping them onto the group chat. it’s making eye contact with the parts of yourself you’ve been avoiding,
and realizing they’ve been waiting - not quietly - for your attention.
you don’t always feel ready.
but solitude doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
i remember talking to a close friend about it once.
she told me she just faked it till she made it real - that she acted like she loved her own company until one day, she actually did.
and i love her for that.
she’s brilliant.
calm.
uses a cute pillow spray and remembers to stretch.
what struck me, though, was how we were both trying to feel okay with ourselves.
both craving it. but with absolutely zero blueprint.
like trying to build a house using only glitter glue, good intentions, and unresolved childhood trauma.
i told her that when i tried to fake it, i felt like such an ugly fish out of the water.
i flopped. and not metaphorically. i mean like, actual flop.
let’s take a moment and imagine a pink-ish, confused, emotionally unstable fish flopping on a simple tile floor.
that was me.
the first time i sat with myself and didn’t try to escape, it felt like my soul was gasping for air through the wrong emotional gills.
itchy in my own skin. awkward in my own presence.
to be or not to be a flop.
it was so deeply uncomfortable, so spiritually unsexy, that the only accurate way to describe it was this:
a fish. out of the water.
flopping. gasping. existential.
not in a cool i’m-growing way, but in a what-the-hell-do-i-do-with-my-hands kind of way.
and that’s when it hit me. that line from carrie bradshaw - our problematic fairy godmother in heels:
“has fear of being alone suddenly raised the bar on faking? are we faking more than orgasms?”
and i couldn’t help but wonder.
because yeah. orgasms? easy to fake.
you close your eyes, make a few polite noises, think about ravioli or that email you’ve been avoiding for three days - boom. academy award. scene over.
but the other kind of faking - the kind where you pretend you're totally fine being alone?
that one’s trickier. a whole different beast.
no script. no soundtrack. no dramatic lighting.
just you and your brain… making eye contact in an empty room like, “so, we meet again.”
and the thing is, we’re painfully undertrained for this part. for being alone in a way that isn’t tragic, performative, or aesthetically pleasing.
we treat loneliness like a glitch in the system.
something that should’ve been fixed by now with therapy, hot girl walks, or at least a probiotic.
like the villain in a rom-com: dramatic entrance, bad intentions, definitely wearing beige. or worse, like the devil who forgot to wear Prada and showed up in sweatpants, holding a half-eaten croissant and a quarter-life crisis.
i’m starting to think that learning to enjoy your own company is a quiet kind of rebellion.
not because you don’t love your people (you do, hard),
but because you choose - actively, awkwardly, bravely -
to also love being with your own weird, wonderful, sometimes-overthinking self.
even when it’s annoying.
even when the vibes are tense.
even when the silence feels like it’s judging you.
because no matter how held we are,
only we can feel our feelings from the inside out.
only we can sit with the ache, the chaos, the silence - and not run.
to stay in your own presence without plotting an escape
is, honestly, the most grown-up thing i’ve ever done.
(that… and keeping a plant alive for more than two weeks)
Clarice Lispector once wrote:
“may my solitude keep me company.
may i have the courage to face myself.
may i learn to sit with nothing
and still feel
as if i am full of everything.”
god damn it. this woman.
so annoyingly right. so iconic. i want to fight her and get her wisdom tattooed as a tramp stamp at the same time.
but may we have that courage.
to sit with the silence.
to raw-dog reality.
to stop trying to fill every second with noise, endless scrolling, or hinge dates that feel like jury duty with wine.
because maybe the real plot twist is finally sitting in peace with yourself and realizing…
damn, she’s actually kind of cooooool.
a little chaotic, sure.
but cool.
here we are, somehow.
not running, not pretending - just being. weird. but kind of cool.
to the awkward silence.
to making eye contact with our own reflections and not immediately cringing.
to sitting in the weird, the quiet, the in-between,
and to discovering that our own company
might just be the best company after all.
not perfect.
not always cute.
but honest.
belonging.
ours.
here's a song to close it off in style ;) till next week!
with love and too many open tabs,
her out loud.
!!!!!
♥️