People who change themselves around others are the saddest types of people, because all they are actually doing is broadcasting their insecurities to anyone who actually knows them, and insulting themselves in doing so.
I’ve encountered almost every variant of this kind of person and found there to be no similarity amongst them, aside from the fact they are afraid of not fitting in. They share no particular look or demeanour, just a tortured soul and they’re the ones doing the torturing.
Since they’re hard to spot until they’re letting themselves down – don’t let your guard down enough to get caught in the crossfires. I found myself in that position once with a girl I used to be friends with in sixth form, when I confronted her about it – bluntly asking her what the hell that was all about – her gaslighting was all the push I needed to end that friendship pretty quick.
I consider it like a social code-switching and it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. The potency of their stupidity is so suffocating, I don’t know how they haven’t choked on it yet – because I’m already gagging.
This was all too common a trait in high school, but I was lucky I had a solid group of friends that I could be myself around and they with me. But I remember my sisters, who are three years below, coming home from school more often than not with another cringe story about how the kids in their year have zero sense of self.
It was like a game, and it was one my sisters and I were never interested in playing. To my surprise, when I moved away for university, I realised some people are still dealing their cards. And I then realised it was never a game, but a problem with people’s self-esteem that haunts them well beyond adolescence.
How harrowing it must be to live your life so half-heartedly; to crave the validation of others who couldn’t care less about the truer – hidden – side of yourself. How terribly weak that is. I don’t even know how people can fake it without hating themselves as soon as they get home. It must be exhausting putting on a performance every single day.
My dad had a name for these types of people: followers. I can’t even fathom being a follower, because I was raised to have self-respect – and above all else, I don’t hate myself. I have my own name for followers that I think suits my thoughts a little better: cucks.
Cucks are not worth your time. There’s zero point in chasing the person you thought you knew; they’re already gone, and chances are they wouldn’t know where to start looking to find them themselves.