Who are you to take yourself so seriously?

When I was in my twenties, and a little into my thirties, I had a sort of alter-ego. Her name was Billy. And Billy was a lot of fun.

She was sexy, confident, a little wild, and genuinely carefree. Billy got away with things; she had a certain magnetism – people were drawn to her. My best friend had her own version of Billy, we called her “the Kid” and together we'd put on these sparkling identities the way you might slip on a statement coat before stepping out into the coolness of the evening.

Some of Billy’s charm was the drinking, if I'm honest. Billy was often a few in. But the drinking isn't the part I keep coming back to. The part I come back to is that Billy never seemed to carry the cost of anything. She just set it down. That got left for me the next morning, in the body I had to keep living in. I won’t turn this into the story of those years and what they cost me (that's a different essay and a heavier one). What I want to talk about is what Billy actually was. Because I don't think she was a mask, exactly. I think she was proof of something.

A very wise person told me once that I was nobody and nothing. Before you brace for how disturbing that sounds, let it in. It’s deeply liberating. He said I could wear different identities like garments, out into this world, and play – and that none of them were really me. It’s a lovely thing to know that – to recognize the joy of play and the freedom to not be fixed to some idea of myself.

Looking back, I realize I knew something about this first when I was in the fourth grade.

I was asked to give a speech in front of the entire school. My teacher was retiring, and I was to stand up and say something about how wonderful she'd been. I was terrified. Terrified in the specific, physical way I've been terrified of public speaking my whole life – the shaking, the red face that comes instantly and without permission, the days of spinning about it beforehand. And then, somewhere in all that dread, I had a thought that for a few moments set me free, I could do this if I weren't me.

If I weren't me, I could walk up there. If I weren't me, my hands would be steady. So I did it more or less as not-me, and I got through it. I was still nervous — it wasn't instant fourth-grade enlightenment, I didn't float back to my seat glowing. But the door had opened a crack. Because if I could do the terrifying thing the moment I stopped being myself, then I had to ask the obvious question. Why was I so afraid to do it as myself? What exactly was this "me" I kept guarding, that couldn't survive one speech?

That's the question. That's the whole thing, really.

Here's something a bit strange I've done for years, and barely told anyone about. Sometimes when I'm with someone I have a hard time understanding, or someone I find a little weird, I'll quietly imitate them. Usually this happens later, when I'm alone, or just in the slightest way when no one is looking. The way they hold their face. Their gestures. Their voice and the way they speak.

It's not to make fun of them. It's more about investigation and empathy — to see what happens when I make those movements with my own body, when I hear their way of speaking come out of my own mouth. And something does happen. The distance between us gets smaller. I don't suddenly understand everything about them, but I've loosened my grip on what I normally identify as me. And I start to find a little lightness and understanding in the things I previously found a little weird. You can loosen your identity to do a scary thing, or slip on someone else's to relive a judgement.

Which brings me back to the country road I live on now, and to Billy, who I hadn't thought about in years.

I was walking the other day and she came into thought, and as a little experiment I put her on. I let her exuberant energy soak in for a few minutes (without her wild girl actions). It felt good. Not because I want to be Billy, it was just sweet to see that she was still hanging in the closet, as colorful as ever. She smiled at an old man sitting on a bench. I think he blushed a little. And I chuckled to myself. Oh, Billy.

It's lovely to think about drawing different energy into myself, giving it a little form — a little color — playing in it for a while, then hanging it back up and carrying on.

So, who am I to take myself so seriously? Nobody.