The incessant scrutiny of my persona.
My countenance, my gestures, body language, the way my jaw moves, the way I breathe. Even my eyebrows, I’m sure, are used to gauge my demeanor.
Have I snapped yet again? I can see the thought bubbles. I squirm.
“Is she in one of those places no one can pull her out of, regardless of how much love weaved rope is cast down to her?”
“How many of her egg shells have I shattered on the ground?”
It is such a discouraging place to be. This self inflicted, self loathing, scum covered petri dish.
I’ve never felt more aware of myself. I’m living life on the nanoscale of others. My sense of awareness has never been sharper or as insulting. I often picture myself screaming. Like in those old Ally McBeal clips where for a split second or two she could envision the most unconventional response or outburst. Punching her boss in the face when he asked her to do something. As the audience, you wondered if she had really done it, only to have the image cut back to her boss asking, “Ally, can you hear me?” And then you’re left with the disappointment of knowing she just imagined the outburst in her head and then she conforms to doing what he asked her to do. Because that’s just what you’re “suppose” to do. Conform.
I scream. In the best, most silent and imaginative Ally McBeal fashion imaginable.
I’m not sure, whether to disappoint or surprise my onlookers.
Most of the time, I just freeze. But then I go from a self inflicted, self loathing, petri dish teeming with life - to a cold bath - and it’s no fun being that either.