Compulsive Internal Voyuerism

sorry i disappeared for 6 months; as you will very soon be able to tell, ive been fighting the demons

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about performance art. About my body as something that is only to be viewed, my personality as something pretty and fleeting. I have a tendency to poise myself in such a way and pick my words carefully so others will be impressed or charmed enough to laugh and put a couple of dollars in my hat. To keep me around for another week.

Flirting with boys through lines I read in a book or batted eyelashes I saw in a movie. Sinking so far into the character I created for other people that I no longer know what I look like without my metaphorical wig and eyeliner.

I understand now why it took Austin Butler so much time to shake off that stupid Elvis accent.

Recently, in an interview, I was asked if I have a motto I govern myself by or a quote that has stuck with me, and I feel I should share it here with you:

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”

By Margaret Atwood, from her novel The Robber Bride. It seems a little bit off-topic, but my blog, my rules.

This quote lives at the base of my skull, shoved somewhere between my cerebellum and my medulla. At first, I liked it because it is about the male gaze, and throughout 14 and 15, I was both enamored and enraged by boys. I hated that they liked girls who were powerless, that they got off on girls being small and weak and needing to be saved.

I hate feeling powerless, I do a lot to remain in control. That sentiment applies to the entire tumultuous relationship I have with this quote.

Everyone is their own voyeur. No one can move through life without a curiosity about what others think about them. In an era where everything is curated, stylized, and plated up for social media, perception is almost unavoidable.

However, this curiosity has a short shelf life and is prone to curdling and growing mold. I have been completely at the mercy of my compulsive voyeurism. Being unwanted because of my personality has slowly snowballed into my biggest fear, which is polarizing for someone whose core beliefs revolve around a commitment to being unique.

The thought that anyone could dislike me based on a first impression is paralyzing. That fear, that lack of control, dictated most (all) of my actions throughout high school. Like any child confronted with something scary and unusual, I hid. I painted my face white, threw on a beret, and performed for the people around me, banging around against my invisible box. I did it because no one hates performance art. It's entertaining, pretty, and easy to fall in love with.

As it turns out, it’s also fucking exhausting. A show should really only last 2 hours (ahem… The Brutalist… take notes), but I was on for 12 at a time. The stage lights were melting my makeup, my costume was fraying at the seams, and the theater was empty save for a few geriatric matinees in the front row.

I would give, and give, and give until there was nothing left. Jokes and smiles and compliments. Always anticipating the next word, thinking that if I were to guess correctly, I would be loved. If I could just say the most perfect things into the shell of your ear, things I know you would want to hear (because I want to hear them), you would love me.

Unsustainability was the name of the game, and anxiety was the victor. Conversations suddenly became ticking time bombs as I waited for the familiar prickly fatigue to set in. Faster and faster, where I used to be able to hold out for 3 hours, I was fading fast at 30 minutes. Generic response after generic response, I could feel my eyeballs bubbling into optic mush. Until one morning, I looked at myself in my bathroom mirror, took in the pallor of my face and the slant of my mouth, and realized that I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.

I had somehow faded into this combination of who I was pretending to be and who I used to be. Stuck between someone artificial and someone I had outgrown. I had strayed so far from any concrete sense of self that I could no longer recognize myself physically. How crazy is that?

On the surface, Atwood's quote is quite pessimistic. It’s the reality for most people my age, considering social media and the budding culture of reaching for an ‘ideal’ that doesn’t truly exist. This idea of being watched all the time is no longer an idea, it is our reality. Not truly having your own life (or a life for your own), not being able to function without being perceived or perceiving your own perception, is awful.

I have chosen to reframe it. If I am my own vouyer, if I am the only one watching, then fuck I should be performing for me! I should be doing what I want to do, moving how I want to move, and saying the things that would impress me. I shouldn’t be anticipating my next response, I should be listening and responding when I want to, not when it is ‘acceptable’ for me to. The only stunts I should be pulling are ones that would make me laugh, and the only decisions I should be making are the ones that would make me happy.

If I am bound to cater to the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, then so be it. I already know what she likes.

Thank you so much for reading, this has been “Have you seen my French mime impression yet?”, and I am and always will be Jack’s all-consuming fear of perception. We will see you… when we see you!