getting out of a phase

I sit in the car, no longer on the beach, escaping the rain. it's dark outside, and the lights of other cars are flashing through the window. this is how all good stories begin.

is being someone a phase? I think, and what comes out is,

am I really this way, or am I acting this way and taking on characteristics because I like you, and this is who you are and what you like? 

I remember in high school, feeling different around different people, changing my personality to fit whomever I was talking to.

if I liked someone's company, I did what I could to keep them close: make jokes they'll get, tell them things about you that are similar to them.

 talk about your life in relation to theirs. encapsulate who they are by what you share with them. 

and in that way, I felt like I wasn't sharing who I was.

and on that night, I felt like I was doing it again. something I hadn't done for a very long time, and so I asked again,

what if I only like these things because you like them, too? 

there was a long pause. another conversation in between. and finally

I think if someone brings something out in you that you like in yourself, there's nothing wrong with that. 

oh.

I had been blaming myself - olivia, you weren't compatible with these people because you faked who you were. you didn't like these things, even if you really did. stop liking them, start over new. and that was your downfall. you pretended to like things that you didn't like, be a person you weren't, and that was why you fell.

but that night, I didn't feel like I was falling. I lay there, getting it. understanding ten years of mistakes, of reading seventeen magazine for advice instead of watching the world.

there are some things about me that are good.

and when people around me bring those out, those are great things. I shouldn't feel wrong or guilty about liking those things, because they are deep inside of me, hoping that they'll have the opportunity to escape.

but there have been times when some people brought out things in me that weren't actually there - I fabricated them from the hopes in my heart. 

and so with that, I look back, and I admit, in an ambiguous train of words:
I like soccer, and I liked playing with you in the summer. But I liked listening to you play the drums a lot less than I led on. I liked being free, and that's why I didn't meet you outside the lockers that one time. I also sort of liked your best friend, so there's that. I liked that you let me apologize for everything, because that's who I am, but over time, I grew bitter. I like the city, but I love the countryside, too - and so I'm stuck in this place of where I want to be in five years and it's not fair to tell you otherwise. I like the forest and I like being barefoot and I like the grateful dead - but there are other things about me that I like, too. there are always more, always more things.

always more things, the honest things about myself, that I should share.