When self-expression is a trigger for self-loathing
Words & images © Paul Ransom
Part one: The vent.
Earlier, at an arts event, there was a friendly discussion. Five strangers in a circle talking about possible futures for humanity. Not so much political, as philosophical. Existential. It was friendly and thoughtful. Respectful. As one of the five I waited my turn to speak.
For a minute or so everything was fine. I was in the flow. Including everyone, being polite, sounding erudite. But then…did I sense their eyes glazing, theirs bodies leaning back? Away?
Abruptly, awfully, I could hear myself from their perspective.
Another voice, this time in my head, interjected. Who the fuck do you think you are, you pontificating little shit?
I finished whatever smartarse observation it was I thought I was making and bit my tongue.
A few minutes later I was out the door, not even saying goodbye. For a while I tried to convince myself that it was other people – crowds – that I was introvertedly running from. But no. It was me, and the sound of my own voice, that had me cringing. Feeling awkward and profoundly uneasy. Exposed. As though I had caught myself out. Performing. Doing my standard issue well-read man routine.
It felt like I had a false skin, a clever but deceptive mask. Except I could not kid myself. So, I tumbled onto a tram and scurried back home. To blurt this.
Sometimes I just wish I could shut the fuck up.
Part two: The morning after.
Now, having slept on it, the above seems intemperate. For a moment, I contemplate Delete. But I take another breath and decide to leave it. If yesterday’s reflex was one of deep unease about feeling – being – fake, then editing and erasing would only add to my disquiet.
Although part of me still recoils, disturbed by a lingering habit of performative outpouring, perhaps the crime scene is better left intact. Here it is…our own voice. The nausea of public persona. The sense, when I am in public, that I am an actor. A poor one at that.
Know thyself, they said. Sounded like a good idea. Until their precious self-awareness undermined the soothing efficacy of erstwhile denial. Leaving me naked.
Again…more theatre. Yet, before I kill the lights, let me deliver a final, poignant line.
I am telling the truth when I tell you I lie.
Maybe you know what I mean by that.
PS: I left the above to simmer for a few days before posting. If I remain discomforted by it, I have opted to own the disquiet. Perhaps, in using our voice so flagrantly – as we are continually encouraged to do – we must pay the price of hearing it.
As If You Were Listening 