the one that remained constantly in the background of my consciousness like a ringing in the ears.
I was embarrassed of it, but also I felt like saying it might be dangerous somehow. Like how you don’t ever say Voldemort’s name.
“I think I might be a fiction,” I said. “How’s that?” “Like, you say it’s stressful to have a change in circumstances, right?” She nodded.
“But what I want to know is, is there a you independent of circumstances?
Is there a way-down-deep me who is an actual, real person, the same person if she has money or not,
the same person if she has a boyfriend or not, the same if she goes to this school or that school?
Or am I only a set of circumstances?”
“I don’t follow how that would make you fictional.” “I mean, I don’t control my thoughts, so they’re not really mine.
I don’t decide if I’m sweating or get cancer or C. diff or whatever, so my body isn’t really mine.
I don’t decide any of that—outside forces do. I’m a story they’re telling. I am circumstances.”
She nodded. “Can you apprehend these outside forces?” “No, I’m not hallucinating,” I said.
“It’s... like, I’m just not sure that I am, strictly speaking, real.”
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