In My Head

Do I really know someone, or all I know is just a fragment of who they are? Just a tiny piece or pieces of them? Lately, these questions gnaw at me, as I find myself struggling with the nature of human complexity.

It is intriguing how our minds strive to understand the vast and delicate intricacies of another person’s being. We observe their actions, listen to their words, and the best we could do is piece together a mosaic of impressions, of sorts. Yet, despite our best efforts, we simply cannot capture the entirety of a person’s essence.

"My father couldn't hold a whole woman in his head," Siobhan Roy's words in the penultimate episode of SUCCESSION reverberate within me. At first, I could only grab the surface meaning of her statement; “My father is a sexist”, but its’ true profundity flew over my head, and I knew it. It wasn't until the phrase resurfaced, with a slight variation this time, that I truly began to understand the weight of its meaning: "I cannot fit a whole person in my head."

For years, my mother existed in my world simply as "Mum." That was the role she played in my life, the only piece of her that I truly knew. I never stopped to consider that she had a life before becoming a mother, that was of no use to me. It was my own hubris, my failure to recognize her as a complete person with her own hopes, dreams, fears, and experiences. I couldn't fathom her having cherished memories or regrettable moments. I didn't see her as someone who had been hurt or had hurt others. In my narrow perception, she was not a teacher, a pastor, or a friend to others—she was simply my mom. By fixating on just that one aspect of her identity, I unintentionally erased her humanity and reduced her to a mere idea.

When we can’t grasp the entirety of a person, which is often the case, we end up creating an image – an idealized concept- of that person based on that fragment we have. It’s like finishing a puzzle without all the pieces, and relying on your imagination to create an accurate complete picture.

Everyone is a universe unto themselves, a cosmos of thoughts, emotions, dreams, and experience. We witness mere fragments of their journey, snippets that they chose to show to us and we believe we’ve seen them all. Forgetting that, behind those eyes, there are hidden parts of their life we may never get to see. The intricacies of a person are boundless, like an ever-expanding universe, defying every and all attempts to fit it in our little boxes of comprehension.

My understanding of a person is always colored by subjectivity. I look at others through the lens of my own perception, shaped by biases, preconceived notions and past experiences. Interpreting people’s behavior through my own lens, ignoring the complex motivations of their intentions. I assume familiarity, yet my knowledge remains incomplete, veiled by my ever-so-important perspective.

We are clothed in layers and masks, revealing certain parts to certain people. But never revealing all at once. 

And sometimes, I think maybe that’s part of what love is; trying to fit a person in your head, piece by piece, day by day. Knowing all the various shades that they are, reaching onto the pieces that they hide away from the world.