The Wrong Version of me

It feels like living two lives in the same body, and somehow being good at the wrong one.

On the outside, I am easy. I am the person people gravitate toward without thinking, the one who fills space with laughter before silence has a chance to settle into something uncomfortable. I check in first. I notice the smallest shifts in people’s moods. I send messages at exactly the right moment, like care comes naturally to me.

People call me bubbly, light, good energy, like being around me is effortless, like I was built this way.

I let them believe that.

Because it’s easier than explaining that none of it is natural. That every smile is placed carefully, every laugh chosen at the right time so no one looks too closely. I’ve learned how to be what people need, how to soften my voice, how to hold conversations together, how to make space for everyone else so no one notices the seconds where I almost disappear.

But the moment I’m alone, it all drops.

Not slowly. Not gently. All at once, like something I’ve been holding above my head finally gives out.

My face goes still. My chest feels heavier. The silence I worked so hard to avoid comes back louder than before.

That’s when I realise what it costs to be the happy one. How exhausting it is to exist in a way that keeps everyone else comfortable while I feel like I’m fading underneath it.

I know exactly what to say when someone else is hurting. The words come easily, soft, reassuring, careful. But when I try to turn those same words inward, they don’t land. They feel hollow, like they were never meant for me.

No one questions the happy friend. There’s no reason to. I’ve made sure of that.

I’ve built this version of myself so carefully that it almost feels real sometimes, like maybe I am just light and easy and okay. But there’s always something underneath it. Quiet. Constant. Unseen.

I can be the brightest person in the room and still feel like I’m disappearing at the same time. Like I’m watching myself exist from just slightly outside of it.

And I don’t know how to stop.

I don’t know how to let that version of me slip without feeling like I’m letting everyone down, like I’m breaking some unspoken promise to always be the one who is fine. So I stay like this, balanced between two versions of myself that never quite meet. Laughing while something heavier settles in my chest. Showing up for everyone else while quietly pulling away from myself.

And most of the time, no one sees it.

Not because they don’t care, but because I’ve become so good at hiding it that even I forget it’s there.

Until everything is quiet.

Until there’s nothing left to distract me from the weight of it.

And then there’s the way my emotions move.

They don’t come with warnings. There’s no build-up, no time to prepare. I can be laughing, talking, feeling almost weightless, like I’ve finally found a version of myself that works, and then something shifts.

Sometimes it’s something small. Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

But suddenly I’m not in the same place anymore.

The energy drains out of me like something vital has been taken, or it spikes too fast, my thoughts racing, my chest too full, my reactions too sharp. It’s disorienting, like trying to keep up with a version of myself that won’t stay still long enough to understand.

And the guilt comes just as quickly as the change.

I feel guilty for the highs, for being too much, too loud, too intense. For talking too fast, feeling too deeply, taking up more space than I think I’m allowed to.

And then I feel guilty for the lows, for going quiet, for pulling back, for not being able to match the energy I had just minutes before.

It feels like I’m always getting it wrong.

Like I’m slightly out of sync with the version of myself I’m supposed to be.

I replay everything. Conversations, tone, expressions, tiny details no one else holds onto, but I keep them like evidence. Proof that I was either too much or not enough.

Even if no one says it, I decide it for them.

I convince myself I’m difficult, inconsistent, exhausting, and then I carry that like something I need to make up for.

So I manage it before it shows.

I monitor myself constantly. If I feel too high, I tone it down, quieter, slower, more controlled. If I feel myself dropping, I stretch whatever energy I have left and pretend nothing has changed.

It’s like editing myself in real time.

Smoothing out every edge so no one has to experience the shift with me.

But it takes so much effort.

Because it’s not just feeling things, it’s watching them, questioning them, correcting them, all at once. It’s being inside the emotion and outside of it at the same time, trying to keep everything steady while it’s moving underneath me.

And even when I succeed, when no one notices, when everything looks normal, it doesn’t feel like relief.

It feels like I’ve erased something real.

The guilt doesn’t leave when I’m alone either. If anything, it gets louder. There’s no distraction, no one to perform for, so I feel every shift more clearly.

And instead of letting it exist, I question it.

I tell myself I should be able to control it better. That I should be more stable, more consistent, easier to understand.

I hold myself to a standard that doesn’t fit, and every time I fall outside of it, I take it personally.

It’s exhausting.

Not just the changes themselves, but the responsibility I feel for them. Like I should be able to predict it, stop it, soften it, make it easier for everyone else.

Like it’s my job to be manageable.

And when I’m not, I carry it longer than anyone else does.

So I learn to apologise without saying it out loud.

I make myself smaller when I feel too much. Quieter when I feel too loud. Softer when I feel too sharp. I adjust constantly so no one else has to adjust to me.

And most of the time, it works.

Most of the time, no one sees the shift at all.

But I do.

I feel every second of it. Every rise, every drop, every moment where I lose track of which version of me I’m supposed to be.

And underneath all of it, constant and steady, is the same thought:

That I should be better than this.

That I should be easier than this.

That I should be someone who doesn’t change so quickly.

And I don’t know how to stop feeling guilty for something that feels like it happens to me just as much as it comes from me.