All of Me Was Too Much

So I became my alter ego

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes. — Walt Whitman

One of my largest internal struggles is the feeling that I contradict myself; that I’m too complex, too multifaceted, and too large to be contained within this one vessel.

As I tether the edge between fearless self-expression and fierce self-censorship, I waver between not giving a damn and giving far too much of it; between my urges to bare it all and bundle up.

Sometimes, childlike in my quest to be seen, I’ll climb up high, perform some unlikely stunt as if hollering; look at me!

I’ll invite your gaze, but once your eyes pierce too deep, I crawl back into the sandpit and bashfully go about my business.

This isn’t a new thing. I still fondly remember using my voice to attract attention: standing on the swing set, flying high and fast, wind-in-hair, unabashedly singing from the top of my lungs.

I used to sing so loudly in the church choir that people from the back row came up to me after and told me that they heard only me. My heart would flutter with pride.

But then, one day, my father didn’t like the choir I was singing in. They weren’t serious enough, and probably not Christian enough, because we sang pop songs too.

—This isn’t really you, he told me, you’re better than that!

He said the same when I came home in high school, ecstatic to have been chosen as one of the actors in the school play, after weeks of auditions.

—Acting? he grumbled. That’s not really your thing!

He told me who I was. He told me who he wanted me to be.

A people-pleaser by nature, and because his approval mattered to me, I tried my hardest to be a version of myself that was acceptable to him—and the rest of my family.

It wasn’t an easy path to navigate; on the one hand, everyone seemed to adore the wild, boisterous, yet girly-tomboy I was. They urged me to get up on stage to perform and sing — if I sang what they wanted to hear.

I steadily learned to navigate the complexities of their expectations. Usually, they came disguised as compliments:

—You’re better than that, smarter than them, more level headed. You’re not like those other, irresponsible teenage girls. Your mother and I know that you make sensible choices!

While I’m sure they didn’t mean it like that, I see now that what they did was one of the most effective, yet subversive, forms of manipulation.

I know that they simply wanted to keep me out of trouble, but their expectations had me riddled with guilt: I knew that I was no better than those other teenage girls, by far. On the contrary, I was curious, adventurous, and eager to explore—and soon enough, an extremely skilled con-artist.

I tried to be better whenever I could, and when I wasn’t, whether by choice or not, I hid it; carefully mirroring back the good girl they told me I was — the one they approved of.

While my explorations as a teen were nothing out of the ordinary, I hid in plain sight—veiled under a layer of minty mouth spray and scented moisturizer.

And so it went: A few of my female cousins rebelled more outwardly; two of them shaved their heads, one came out as a lesbian (god forbid!) and another wore hot pants and plunging cleavages to family gatherings. I hid what I’d come to realize was my bad girl self under long mouse-blonde hair and over-knee floral dresses.

It wasn’t that I was not myself. I never pretended to be anything I wasn't. I was just less of me because I knew that all of me was too much.

When I moved across the planet to attend art school at the age of twenty, it was the last time I lived in the same town as my family. And while I’m geographically closer to them now, I’m still buffered by a short flight or a twelve-hour car ride.

We do have a fairly tight relationship—at least my mother, sister and I—but, the woman they’ve always known isn’t really who I am.

It’s not that I’ve shown a false picture, just an incomplete one. I’ve feared that all of me is too much.

I theorize that one reason why I swopped my kind and caring high school sweetheart for an arrogant, yet cultured rube was an act of rebellion against my upbringing.

This arty-intellectual egomaniac never minded anyone’s comfort zones. He spoke loudly, and shame-free; cussing his guts out during class presentations. His sass caused onlookers to shrug or chuckle timidly—and me; to blush lustfully.

He was everything I’d never dared to be; unapologetically himself. (Or so I thought). Next to him; a brawling and bad-mannered brute, it was effortless to maintain my good girl guise.

I thought that since he demanded so much space, there’d be plenty of room for all of me as well. Instead, I faded further into the background.

Much the opposite from my modest family, his expectations of me were different, but no less complicated to navigate. Also disguised as compliments, or attempts to look after me, the manipulations weren’t easy to spot—at least not to a lovestruck twenty-something:

—If you were both jogging and doing yoga, you would be even hotter!

Was that a compliment? Was it an insult? I remember that it didn’t sit right, but I took it as an encouragement to be an even better version of me—for him.

—They’re not interested in your talents. She’s only looking to take advantage of your contacts. He’s only trying to get into your pants. Beware!

Because I thought he had my best interests in mind, I believed him.

As with my father, I tried my hardest to be a version of myself that was acceptable to him. Having honed my self-curation skills since childhood, I continued to show the sides of myself that he’d approve of.

For years I tiptoed—and choreographing others to tiptoe—around him. In this theatre of life, I was his wardrobe and stage assistant, until I was merely an extension of him.

It wasn’t that I was not myself. I never pretended to be anything I wasn’t. I was just less of me because I knew that all of me was too much.

After I eventually left him, it was as if a valve unclogged; more of me rose to the surface, and as months passed, my memory of me further returned to fill in the blanks.

Shortly, I found myself in a bind: The me that I’d projected to the world for so long was an impartial image. The space I’d carved out for myself, wasn’t big enough for all of me to fit in. As if my skin was too tight, I was bursting at the seams; I was spilling out of myself.

I felt like I was living a double-life. I started compartmentalizing heavily. If social media is an indicator of what’s going on internally, my mind was playing a perpetual game of ‘what goes where’. I juggled and fretted to figure out which part of me to put under which account or username.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. —Anais Nin

It’s been almost two years—since before I’d ever seriously thought about publishing any of my writing—that I decided that I needed a pen-name. I needed to start over with a clean slate, to create a new space that gave room for all of me. I needed to be free of the limitations and expectations I’d spent my life catering to.

Ena Dahl was one of several names scribbled on a list at the beginning of 2018. Quickly thereafter, ‘she’ created the controversial Instagram account that led my father to think I’d become a satanist.

My first post showed a woman removing a mask, with the caption “Mask off!”. This was the beginning of the clearing of my throat chakra; of daring to speak my truth and be all of me, not merely the acceptable parts.

My sister followed too, and later unfollowed, saying that it was too much for her:

—This is more of you than I need to see!

The complete picture shocked some of those who had only seen fragments. It confirmed that all of me is in fact too much for some.

I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me. ― Anais Nin

Ena grew and started taking up more space: I found Medium and became a member. I started writing, uncompromisingly and without fear, without shame, and without holding back.

Over the course of the last months, I’ve steadily abandoned the facades; the tangible and the virtual online ones, and I’ve progressively unfolded into the new space that I’ve created.

— I’m feeling more and more like Ena these days–I think I’m becoming ‘her’ and abandoning the ‘Old-Me’.

When I confessed this to one of my oldest and best friends, she simply responded;

— You are Ena! I know you, and you’ve always been ‘her’ — you’re just breaking free. Keep going.

What started out as an alter ego—a refuge and free-space—proved to be the me that I’ve always been, but was too ashamed to share.

I never shared ‘her’, because she is all of me, and I knew that all of me was too much.

Writing has not only given me back my voice; it has given me back myself. I feel a deep sense of gratitude to you, my readers, and to my close friends, on and offline, who’ve shown that they accept all of me, with my complexities and contradictions.

I’m not too complex, not too multifaceted, and not too large. I’m not too much— I’m exactly enough.

Through the eyes of those who see, I find myself making sense; I find myself whole!

I will continue to holler, but I will no longer crawl back in the sandpit and hide for the sake of anyone’s comfort. I’m done apologizing; I’m done curating and exhibiting only the pieces that please the palettes of others.

If I’m too large for you to swallow, then spit me out and move on. If I’m too glaring, please, look away because I will not hide. If I’m too much for you, it might simply be that you’ll never be enough. And that’s ok.

To the rest, thank you for seeing—I see you too!