The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Identity Crisis

"Invalid Entry" 

There is another girl with my name. Two girls, actually. One is American, the other English, and it astounds me because before the advent of the internet, I was pretty certain I was unique in every which way.

My mother chose Tara because it was Irish and because, at the time, it was unusual. Not 'Ter-ra'. That's horrid, but you know, I answer to it. Very few teachers ever got 'Tar-a' on the first day, and I flirted with the less appealing 'Ter-ra' in second grade when a boy I liked insisted on referring to me as such. To this day, whenever a man I find attractive pronounces my name correctly, I get a little tingle in the most pleasurable of places. Actually, I don't think ninety per cent of the population I've encountered have pronounced it correctly on the first try, which is odd given it's such a tiny, little name. I suspect the American Tara goes with 'Ter-ra'. I don't think the English one does, though. The Europeans tend to get it right. When I went to Ireland I was incredibly pleased to be among people who knew how to beckon me. Here, I am often mistaken for a 'Ter-ra', or a Mrs. F-------, when I'm neither. I suppose I can see why people might make these assumptions, but you won't hear me refer to myself as such. I'll always be me.

What frustrates me is that people see a version of myself I am completely unfamiliar with. I usually feel confident that I am in touch with my true self, until someone comes at me with an accusation which has little to do with who I feel I am. I guess that's why I sometimes like hearing someone else's interpretation of my character, because I find it interesting to hear the differences, rather than the similarities. I have been described as generous by friends and cheap by my family. My mother has told me she thinks I'm a sex fiend (!?), while R. called me frigid. M. often tells me I'm consistently normal, while I feel like I'm teetering on the brink of madness on a good day. I have been admonished for being too quiet and for refusing to ask probing questions, and have also been told I am invasive and chatty. I have been hideously ugly and 'the most beautiful woman I have ever seen'. I have been shy and awkward as well as intimidating and overpowering. I've been heavy at the same time I appear to be thinner. I have been crazy when I have also been in the most in control. I am both a redhead and a blonde, an intellectual and an impractical moron. I am a believer in life everlasting and a suspicious atheist. I am inspiring and I am an utter bore.

So, what then? If I am to look at myself and really take stock of the situation, who is it that I am? Do I actually like what I see? The problem is, though, that I often do the opposite of what my true self thinks I should. I am well aware that I could be a professional success, that I have the intelligence to do so, but my body refuses me, my thoughts put the brakes on. I love to learn but did not finish university because of a superficial fear which has unshakable power. I view myself as a deep-thinking, romantic, kind-hearted, gentle-fingered woman. The fear comes in, the inherent awkwardness and it leads me to come off as harsh and guarded, impenetrable and obtuse. It truly pains me because I know that it's a matter of something getting lost in the middle, that somehow, my intentions get sabotaged and are held hostage by my fears. I hate that people don't look a little deeper. I suppose that's why I keep my circle small.

I am always surprised by my emotions. I was completely unprepared for my sorrow over M's mother's passing, given her advanced age and the fact that she hadn't really been living in a few years while I have seen younger people die, some tragically, and I have not shed a tear. I was not ready for the deluge of tears which ran down my face at my sister K's wedding, when I had been almost emotionless at my other sister's only two years before. I do not understand why I continue to obsess over my relationship with R., it's beginning and end, when I have never considered going back to him and am completely certain that it ended because it was supposed to. I am never able to withstand the horror of enduring a panic attack or a bout of depressive anxiety when a festive happening is underway, and even if my mind tells me that it will pass, my body takes me from the room and hides me until it is all over. This makes people think I don't care, that I am disinterested and bored when neither could be further from the truth. I am a cavern for dualing identities, a walking cage with fighting birds. The feathers fly, the wings flap, the cage rattles, and it goes on and on.

Even this voice you think you know is not the one you'd hear if you stood near me. I suspect you think it's a deep voice, a somber voice when really I am more of a soprano, and I am giggling more often than not.