rant: main character syndrome

Airports make me a little delusional. When I’m stomping down to gate 56 with my carry-on wheeling behind me, the terminal becomes my catwalk. I make brisk eye contact with people as I fly past, leaving them in my wake to think, “Who is that mysterious person? Which exotic location is she off to?” I mean, in reality it’s 6am in the Jetstar domestic terminal – your girl isn’t going anywhere special. Yet, when I’m waiting at the gate to board, I think the eyes of other passengers are glued to me. See? I’m deluded. I blame main character syndrome.

It’s embarrassing to admit, but I think I’ve always seen myself as the main character. Which implies everyone else is the supporting cast. This is partly due to how I was brought up. A lot of my clothes and belongings as a child screamed LOOK AT ME. My rainbow sequin and velvet vest, my handmade mauve fluffy recorder case, and the school formal dresses my mum made (particularly one with red tulle underwear sewn in to match the red tulle skirt… what the fuck).

My sister got the main character memo too. One year, every child in her primary-school class was instructed to wear a Santa hat for a carols performance. Seeing as there’s no real chance to stand out, Mum sewed an entire white feather boa around the bottom of Annie’s hat. It was like she’d time-travelled to Harry Styles’ Christmas wedding because the red part of the hat was no longer visible. Main character energy runs in our family.

It is, however, about more than what you wear. It’s mainly about how you feel. My main character syndrome peaks when I’m listening to music. It doesn’t matter what genre because any song could be my backing track – it just depends on the day. If I’m listening while driving, it feels like the cars are magically synching up to make space for me; if I’m listening while running, I feel like the cheering crowd is just around the corner as I hit the home stretch; if I’m listening while brushing my teeth, it feels like I’m part of a wake-up montage in a feel-good movie. Delusional, I tell you!

Why does my brain do this? Perhaps it’s due to growing up with an uncommon chronic illness, so I kind of felt a bit different from everyone else, anyway. People always told me it made me “special” or “unique” (most likely to make me feel more comfortable or less depressed). No one is telling me that these days (except my mum, as is her duty) but I still – somewhat embarrassingly – feel like my name would appear first in the credits of the movie that is existence.

To be honest, I could (and probably do) just have an inflated sense of self, but it feels like there’s more to it. Is it some kind of coping mechanism? Something to distract me from the mundanity of life? Perhaps these main character thoughts are a way of getting through the boring bits without spiralling. Let me explain.

It feels like my two options for doing the dishes when I’m home alone are to either force myself to do the dishes and be sad or listen to an absolutely chaotic mid-2000s pop song and pretend I’m the main character scrubbing the pots while some kind of poignant narration about her life thus far in the film plays over the top. I choose the lies! I’m happier in this falsehood. Now let this main character finally hit ‘send’ on her manuscript (aka this short article) and go and enter a party scene (eating olives from the fridge). Cut!

This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 118. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.