I Genuinely Want so Many People to Unknow Me.

There is an overwhelming amount of me currently residing in minds I no longer care to inhabit. It hits at odd hours—the sudden awareness that pieces of who I used to be, things I’ve said, mistakes I’ve made, versions of myself I outgrew years ago, are still in other people's memories. People I haven't spoken to in years. People whose numbers I deleted. People who saw a chaotic, desperate, or overly eager version of me and decided, "Ah, yes. That’s who she is."

I don't want to be known by that many people anymore. I really don't.

When you’re younger, or maybe just when you’re lonelier, you think visibility is the same thing as love. You want everyone to see you. You want to leave an impression in every room you walk into and to be remembered. You say every thought out loud and every heartbreak, because you think if enough people witness you, it proves you actually exist.

Then you wake up one day, look around, and realize you’ve given away too much of yourself to people who were only ever supposed to be extras in the background.

It makes my skin itch to know how many people walk around with a version of me inside their heads that isn't even true anymore. An old friend who only remembers the bad version of my temper. A former partner who thinks they knew me so well. A casual acquaintance who caught me on a bad day and thinks I’m cold. A group of people I tried too hard to impress, who probably remember me as annoying, or desperate, or just plain weird.

I want it all back. I want to pull my name out of their mouths. I want to reclaim every piece of my history that is currently rusting in somebody else's brain.

Unmeet me. Unnotice me. Unlike me. Untalk to me. Unlook in my direction. Just let me slip out of the narrative entirely. Erase the cache. Wipe the memory bank.

Honestly, being "known" by everyone is exhausting, especially when most people don't actually care to know you—they just want gossip on your life. Worse than that, though, is the bitter realization that half these people didn't even earn the right to carry my story.

It’s an insult, honestly. The fact that access to me used to be so cheap. That someone could give me shitty effort, treat me like an option, handle my trust with sticky, careless hands, and still walk away with a permanent pass to say they knew me. That a former coworker who made my life miserable gets to drop my name in conversation. That an ex who barely treated me like a human gets to tell people what I'm like in private. That a fake friend who only ever called when they needed something gets to claim a stake in my history.

Who gave them permission to hold onto that? I did. And that’s the part that pisses me the fuck off the most.

They don't deserve the privilege of my context. They don't deserve to know how I take my coffee, or what makes me break down, or how I act when I’m actually happy. They didn't pay for that level of access, yet here they are, strolling through life carrying pieces of my intimacy like cheap souvenirs from a trip they barely took.

I want to revoke their access retroactively. I want to sue for breach of contract on every intimate detail I ever accidentally handed to someone who was not worthy enough to hold it.

I don't want the performance of visibility anymore. I don't care about being understood by a crowd. I don't care about leaving a footprint on every soul that happens to cross my path. I want my radius to shrink until it’s small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

I want to be known deeply, intensely, and entirely by about four people. People who actually watch me grow and don't hold me hostage to who I was years ago. Everyone else? I want them to forget my voice. I want them to hear my name and feel neutrality—no nostalgia, no bitter history, no lingering opinions, just a blank screen.

It’s not even coming from a place of pure malice. It’s just an intense, some-what violent craving for privacy. For quiet. For the luxury of changing my mind, my personality, my goals, and my life without wondering about a thousand silent observers who think they already know how the story ends.

There is so much peace in the idea of becoming a stranger again to the people who were only ever meant to be temporary. If I could hand out retroactive amnesia to half the people who have my phone number, I would do it without thinking twice. Forget the late-night conversations where I overshared. Forget the arguments where I tried too hard to prove I was right. Forget the times I showed up as someone I’m embarrassed of now. Just let it all dissappear into thin air.

Unknow me. Let me go back to being just another face on the street, completely free of your context and memory.