The other interpretation is the multi-personality one. Even this word that I’m writing right now could be a false version of my real self. I’ve been going with that idea for awhile, with limited returns. If I vacillate from my real self(ves) to my hidden, empty selves, it’s an uncomfortable game of cat and mouse, trying to catch the movable objects of either my real or fake self. It sets me up with a lovely sense of second guessing my actions and motives. But deciding that I am just such and such kind of person (like mildly autistic) is a more streamlined interpretation of my overall self and humanity. I am me. For better or for worse.
The theory is that my personality split off into many sub-personalities. When? During trauma.
Is it a race to see who has the most sub-personalities? Oh, boy. Whose cream can rise to the top? It’s a game. Another game. Yet another tiring game. Like the Terminator in the first sequel. I used to think back to that scene. I feel like him/it frequently. Or I used to. Maybe not so much lately. I have pared down my count, so it appears.