I Am Frankenstein

Chasing my fears to the ends of the earth in an endless pursuit

Madelyn Valento

Often I look at other people and wonder how they’re so put together. Not necessarily academically or professionally, or even romantically, but how they have such a cohesive sense of self. They have a distinct style of dress, they’re a part of things, and they constantly meet expectations. I wonder why I feel so stuck in limbo, like I can never narrow myself down into having one style, one focus, never not failing to attend and participate and deliver. 

Then the other side of my brain supplies that maybe I do appear put together to others. Maybe it’s impossible for me to determine from this point of view; my blinders are on. I’m only looking forward, not down or around, and I’m constantly avoiding the mirror. While I grasp for this one sense of self, I might be forcing myself into a slim existence, killing myself again and again to fit into a finite role.

But really, there are things about me that are hallmarks of who I am, even if they’re stolen: phrases I find myself saying after learning them from a friend, mimicking behaviors I can recall my twin brother having clearly exhibited (we’ll get to that later, the twin thing), and trying to live my life even a fraction of the way my parents lived theirs. I hear, “Just like your father,” “You sound like your mother,” or “It’s some sort of twin telepathy, right?”

Yep, just like him. So what?

Do I? I’m her daughter after all. 

Not really, we just think the same way and like the same things. 

(We definitely don’t have twin telepathy. If you asked him what color the sky was, he’d probably say green. I’d say purple.) 

It’s both a blessing and a curse to live in the shadow of those around me, graced by their traits but held up to them in comparison. By far, being a twin is the best thing in my life. I have a built-in friend, an excuse, a partner-in-crime, and the assurance that we will always bounce back. At the same time, I’m never sure if I should see him as a mirror image of myself or half of who I am. Am I whole without him? For 21 years he’s been by my side, and I’ve come to expect him there. Require him there. But occasionally, I go out into the world and the people I meet don’t know he exists, so they only see me. I am not a sister to them, not a twin, not one half of a whole, not one of two. It simultaneously feels like breaking free from that role and being incredibly unknown. 

I worry more about how I appear to others than I should. I’m the one looking at others and filing away everything about them; who’s to say they’re doing that to me? 

My sense of self is blurred. I am unanchored, yearning to fit into my skin like I see so many others do. I keep hoping the day will come where life becomes comfortably snug, where I don’t feel the disconnect between my mind and body, between who I am alone and surrounded by others. I believe there’s a spot for everyone in this world—a niche, if you will, and if you want to fill that niche, you can. Pretend to fill the role until it becomes real. Who will know? Eventually you’ll start to believe it yourself. It’s easy for me to tell myself that, to rationalize, but so much harder to do. It’s as if others can see the stitches, the parts of me I’ve hastily sewn together, because I am both the monster and the maker.

While I live in limbo, waiting for the day my life falls into place, I run the risk of forgetting I’ve gotten myself this far in life with who I already am, and maybe there’s something to be proud of in that.