fearās ouroboros
Journal entries are supposed to be these private romantic notes from the self. I'd like to pretend that this is a journal entry, but I don't, for a second, want to pretend that you won't read it. Every journal entry I've ever written has been with you in mind.
I've always been hyper-aware of my imagined audience, seemingly from the moment of my birth. My father looked down at me for the first time and, as my personal mythos now states, said, āshe's just happy to be anywhere.ā I do think he was right - there is, at my core, a genuine happiness - but I think he missed the motivation behind my baby smile. I'll bet you anything that my infant self looked up at my Dad and instinctively understood that he was vulnerable and scared and so - born human addict and people pleaser that I am - I acted like a happy baby because I knew that's what he needed. My body and my fear of not pleasing him were born in the same moment. My imagined audience is, to this day, more often than I'd like, my father, but it's also sometimes the crowd of mourners at my fantasy funeral, or sometimes a fake future lover, or a real ex, or sometimes a slew of adoring fans.
The crowds at funerals are the best audiences. They cling to clichƩ with a desperate strength, almost any expression of emotion is acceptable, and there is no 'too much' for them. Funerals, we all know, are not for the dead. They're for the living. It is so rare in this life to be in a room with that much potential. Everyone at a funeral is asking themselves questions so heavy that you can almost feel them dripping from the ceiling: Will my life ever be the same? Will this death change the ways in which I fear life? Will this eulogy save me from my own thoughts?
A room full of mourners, all bonded by a common trauma. Their pain on display, almost embarrassingly so. Their vulnerabilities sewn together into the makeshift flag of their fleeting nation. This moment in time is so fraught with possibility. This moment could change everything. I used to think that at funerals there was no possibility, that death kills all potential, but I know better now.
Our experiences with metabolizing grief and loss are some of the most formative parts of life. How you are cared for and spoken to after a death, or a loss, is life altering. How you care for yourself is of the utmost importance. These moments are the richest breeding grounds for fear. This is where it can grow like black mold; one day just a dot, no bigger than the tip of your pen, the next day covering an entire wall, poisoning the atmosphere.
Fear is inherent in all animals, humans are no exception, but human fear is not simply a response to threat, an evolutionary instinct, a means of survival, as in some species. Humans have elevated fear, made it into an art form, a commodity, a muse, or, where I am concerned, a companion.
I used to wonder whether imagining a constant audience made me sick; whether other people were always performing, even in their private moments. I now believe that it is not an expression of illness, it's a reaction to fear. I get so hungry for validation and so afraid of being alone. Performing for my audience curbs the loneliness and gives me someone to impress. My fear imagines up whatever it needs to feed itself. It's selfish. It's jealous when it's not the first thing that I consult in my decision making. It's angry when it doesn't control my actions.
My imagined audience isn't all, or even mostly, a bad thing. It has made me: self-aware, aware of my surroundings, good at reading people. My constant performing isn't just a defense mechanism, isn't just a face I put on, it is also, in part, truly and truthfully me; my performative nature comes from and feeds that deep well of joy that my father saw when I was born. Separating the healthy parts of myself from the fear-driven parts is like unscrambling eggs.
My elaborate defense mechanisms create the illusion of keeping me safe. They allow me to feel like I've avoided loneliness. They also stop me from having my own experience, and slow me from learning my truth; a truth not taught or touched by anyone but myself, a truth not validated by an audience, real or imagined. The lower my guard is and the quieter my fear, the closer I get to that truth. For the longest time I thought the way to quiet fear was to drown it out, with something louder, more intense, or something more insidious. But all that yielded me was new wounds, different fears, a million hangovers, and a thousand missed opportunities. The guilt that this sick harvest produced only increased the fear. The cycle felt more than repeating, it felt perpetual.
All I want to do is qualify all of this, to apologize for it. I want to make you laugh, make me laugh, to distract from the discomfort. But that would be feeding the fear and pandering to the defense mechanisms. Confronting my truth kills the fear, even if the truth is that I'm afraid. Can you glean the logic in that sentence before it eats its own tail?
The truth is that I am still writing to an imagined audience, but today I'm not afraid of them leaving, or of their death, and I am not desperate to impress them. Every day I practice not trying to impress anyone, not trying to force anyone closer, or keep anyone away. The more I show up, am kind, and speak my feelings simply, the closer I get to my truth, and the more I lessen fear's grip on my legs and hands and mouth.
