The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

do not despair at being different. For that very difference, initially such a source of shame, so humiliating, and painful, will one day become a badge of honor and pride.

The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am.

I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?

All the uneasy feelings I experienced on the street, or in social situations, or if I had to disagree with someone, or assert myself—the queasiness in my stomach, fear of eye contact—this had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with the here and now. They were old feelings that were displaced in time. They belonged to a little boy long

ago, who was once so afraid, under attack, and unable to defend himself.

Once I saw the kid in me, I started seeing kids in other people—all dressed as adults, playacting at being grown-up. But

I saw through the performances now, to the frightened children beneath. And when you think of someone as a child, it’s impossible for you to feel hatred.

Our perception is clouded by the need to comply, justify, and forgive.

an insecure, neurotic Scarecrow, seeking intellectual validation;

“A frightened child is hiding inside your mind, still unsafe; still unheard and unloved.”

our true self only appears when there is no one to perform to—no audience, no applause. No expectation to be met. Playing serves no practical purpose, I suppose, and requires no reward. It is its own reward.”