Artwork by Jocelyn Soetanto

I go by four different names. I do wonder though, who I am at the centre of this performance.

The first moniker exists only in cyberspace. A name thought of with blue light glaring and nimble fingers dancing across keys. Alt—a command key turned into another identity for me to assume. She is in many ways my truest form. She exists in a space where I am unencumbered by my physical body; no longer restrained by those impossible standards, no longer taking up too much space. She exists in a space where wit and grit are a woman's best friend. She can be brash or rude; kind or cruel. Someone will never know you, but you are free to be truly you—a singularly unique paradox.

My true name exists only as a cog in a machine. It is a name written on dotted lines by a pen nearly out of ink. It is shouted across a battlefield filled with files and doublespeak. I might circle back to this one though—you know, make sure it aligns with our values.

The name given to me by my parents is not my true name, but it is close enough. Carol, they call me. That is the name of whispered assurances, of a gentle hand through my hair. She is the safest version of my soul, the version with no burdens beyond what is for dinner that evening. I can never be that girl for as long as I wish; there always comes the eventual return to reality—to them.

The fourth name exists as a way to divorce myself from my youth. She was my method of reinvention, of reimagination. She takes energy though, a performance of sorts, and that is draining. Callie is outspoken and intelligent; she is the projection of my ideal. She is the first to speak in a seminar; she sits on the south lawn, soaking in the sun with a book in hand. She is never really at peace, but I wish she were. She is the mask I am forced to wear to move through my everyday world, and sometimes I just wish to sleep.

Together, these four names form my soul. These fragments—all so separate—cannot exist without the other. Sometimes they might cross the boundaries into one another's territory, but that is rare and strange. A thing that only occurs when I have pushed myself too hard, oftentimes for too long. These names, in many ways, are shields and swords in their own right. They allow me to move through the world with ease or to protect me from external troubles. However, I do often find myself pondering where the real version of me lies—is it somewhere in the centre of this facade? This ceaseless performance.