In The Nightgale, the novel I'm reading for next month's book club gathering, I find these lines spoken inwardly by an elderly woman with a terminal illness:
If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen me instead of a dependable, ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I’d like to be known.
The false self, or partial-version self, craves admiration. The authentic self wants to be known for who she is in truth, in all her concreteness, with her virtues, vulnerabilities, and imperfection. She eschews all pretending. What she wants is reality, because only the real self can give and receive true love.