Pageboy: A Memoir

by Elliot Page

I’ve spent much of my life chipping away toward the truth, while terrified to cause a collapse.

oh

Those were some of the best times of my life, traveling to another dimension where I was … me. And not just a boy but a man, a man who could fall in love and be loved back. Why do we lose that ability? To create a whole world? A bunk bed was a kingdom, I was a boy.

I remember when I realized I couldn't make up imaginary worlds anymore. it was painful.

if I was not born, I’d have no perception of what I’d be missing, nor would anyone else miss me.

I get this

It is not as easy to forgive my father. I’m going to come to Toronto and kick your ass. When his kid needed safety, when his kid needed love, when his kid needed protection, he threatened violence. Outraged because I had the audacity to communicate with an older man on the internet when I was a minor. If I didn’t deserve care in that moment, if I didn’t deserve safety and love, when would I ever? That sentence has lived in my body much longer than the man’s threats, his obsession, his fingers fondling my arm.

I’ve made a habit of requiring a hefty push to the edge, almost over, in order to finally address “feelings,” and not just that, but also to simply acknowledge there are any. But even in my lowest moments, a piece of me, ever so small, becomes clearer and clearer. An opening, fragile and elusive. Instantly, it comes flooding in. It’s fleeting. Seize it. A whisper that sits waiting.

Only later was I like … oooh cocaine! I always forget about cocaine.

oh, me too!

I can see now how moments like these—between me, my mom, my dad—silently paved the way for my future relationship dynamics. I would throw the feelings aside, worried I’d get in trouble for having them, remaining in situations a lot longer than I should have, hide my truth. Inevitably, this would always lead to more damage and more harm. Like the many ways in which I have been difficult for people—my abrupt shifts, shutting down mixed with the instinct to run, being dishonest because I felt so irrationally frightened.

A fixation and focus only for their feelings had been wearing me thin. I felt that Emma’s emotions always took precedence over mine. This, I am certain, was purposeful on my part. The avoidance, the running, the numbing, the disassociating—all of my nifty tactics at their best. Harmful for me and harmful for them. And ultimately, it had nothing to do with Emma.