The art of not making eye contact
I’ve learned I do this new thing where I struggle to make eye contact when talking about difficult things.
The first time I caught myself doing it was my first therapy appointment in college. I don’t really know why I started doing it, but I figure it was a kind of strategy. It definitely seemed to help the uncomfortable situation I found myself in then. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything worse than showing up to tell a stranger why you feel like shit. Pulling out each one of my toenails would have probably been preferable if I had found the right tools and a supportive crowd. Really, what could be worse? Oh right, feeling like shit.
Now that I think about it, though, I can come up with a bunch of different reasons. Maybe looking away from the person I’m talking to makes it more like I’m just talking aloud, to myself.
Maybe, looking away from the person’s gaze means I don’t pick up on their reactions, their facial expressions that I undoubtedly will take as live feedback for what I’m saying. I’m very good at picking up on what others think about me (read: sensitive).
I care too much, but not in the conventional sense of “I wonder what people think of me,” because this looking away thing is a habit with my friends, too — loved ones, who I am secure enough to believe are on my side and past the point of judging me.
I think it’s because I am too aware of the drama of the entire thing. Like I’m auditioning for a role and have been asked to deliver an improvised monologue. Am I doing this right? Pauses good? More intonation, probably. If only I kept up with wearing my retainer, I would enunciate better. I feel like I’m in a play. Being played. Someone’s going to yell cut and make me do a do-over. The lights are dimming on me, and I become so aware of the act.
I don’t think this way when everything I’m feeling is contained within me, raw, beating hard against the corners of my temples. But the moment anything escapes into the world, it’s easier for me to discount it as drama. Easier to just chalk up my awkwardness to bad acting than to gawky emotionality.
It’s embarrassing how I wallow, ungracefully, in sentimentality.
I’m starting to see moments in real life, the heavy ones, as just bad renditions of the arts. As a real-life imitation of what it’s supposed to play out like. Instead of movies trying to recreate and connect to something based on reality, it feels like reality is trying to emulate a tried-and-tested trope. (This is the problem with watching and reading too much as a kid.)
Perhaps my instinct for living through hard moments and witnessing bad performances is the same: to look away.
At the end of the day, aren’t we all just performing to be the best re-enactment of a friend, lover, student, daughter, acquaintance, cousin? Taking cues from those around us, those that have some experience in these roles and seemed to do a good job?
No? Just me? Alright.
