Am I an Imposter?

By: Yasumi Villareal

I was on my desk, writing poems, and listening to a random video on my phone as I work. Suddenly, a memory of a conversation popped into my head, a slap in the face making me remember who I was before and how much I’ve changed for people. Knowing what was to come, I braced myself. Taking deep breaths, trying to evade the incoming war of thoughts and emotions — until I lost. I stared at myself in the mirror, heart racing, then felt my tears going down my cheeks, hands shaking, asking, “Who are you?”

I stared at my fingers and flexed them, looking at the lines and grooves on them. I looked even closer and looked at grooves on my fingertips, checking my special fingerprints. “Do they even know who you are?” I looked back at the mirror and sighed, seeing my bloodshot eyes and tears running down my cheeks, “What are you crying for? You always knew you no one would like you for who you are .” I sobbed even harder knowing that I did this to myself, cornered into a wall while getting chased by my different personalities. I put my hands down on the white desk cluttered with notes and thoughts. I looked at the ceiling and closed my eyes that felt dry and heavy, trying to look away at myself, fearing the intrusive thoughts that come with it.

After having my eyes closed for almost a minute, I opened them again and looked at the light above my mirror, seeing streaks of light like it was stage light, showing my vulnerability to myself in the mirror — mocking me. I looked away, grabbed my phone, and walked towards my bed, hoping that sleep would make me feel better, obviously my brain wasn’t going to comply, and remembered the times I had to wear a smile and sit with a group where I do not belong — an imposter. I felt my chest tighten and let out a choked sob, “Imposter, that’s what you are.” I threw my phone on the bed and laid down, putting my blanket on my face, hoping to let go of my consciousness, trying to just be free from the thoughts. I felt my tears soak my blanket and the bed sheet below me. “Imposter, imposter, imposter” was repeating in my head and I sobbed harder. “This is your fault, no one will like you if they find out. You’ll feel even more like a background character.” I pounded my head with my fists, trying to shut it up, with no prevail.

I decided to reach for my phone, hoping to give myself a distraction. I turned it on while getting flashed by the bright screen, I saw that someone messaged me. I opened it and saw my friend send me a meme. It brought a woeful smile to my face, yet brought a more horrifying and sad statement to mind. I cried my eyes out and forced myself to sleep. As darkness envelops me, I thought of the statement that still haunts me, “You’re going to hurt them more than you.”