Do you know me?
I got irked recently when my mother turned at the table and said, “I know you, Rachel.” She had just said I am easily repulsed. Which I don’t believe I am. “I know you,” she said, as if to imply, better than you know yourself. Since T had the fur covered peach slice incident at the ready, it was easy to concur. But honestly, one or two incidents does not make a label.
In a conversation recently, the person speaking with me kept assuming that she knew me, possibly better than I know myself, and as hard as I tried to offer a rebuttal, she kept giving me that knowing look – which I must say really vexes me.
Okay, I don’t know me either. I’ve done things I didn’t think I was capable of – and that is a wide range of great things and horrible things. I’ve reacted most in line with who I think I am but mostly I have spent a lifetime questioning who I am, so what gives anyone outside of my skin to think they “know” me if I am still surprising myself?