Eyes on You

My sister has what people call a camera face, a specific expression she makes whenever any recording device is pointed directly at her. Chin up, smile on, jaw tilted backwards, she sports the same face in all photos of her from the past fifteen years. It can look kind of funny when you really get into it, but hey, if it ain’t broken, why fix it?

I don’t have a camera face. Any and all photos of me are a collection of awkward, lipless smiles, peace signs, and feeble attempts at escaping the situation. Now, while looking like a hideous Early Renaissance portrait in photos is something of a family curse, it hit me in a way it never hit my family members, because unlike, say, my uncle, for me it’s hard to separate the unflattering photos from the less-unflattering reality. Call it teenage girl angst or whatever you want but looking like a long-haired version of your dad in all photos really does a number on you, especially if you’re one of those awkward, self-conscious, and insecure kids to begin with.

And oh boy, if that doesn’t sum up my entire life.

There’s being self-conscious, and then there’s being self-conscious, the kind of crippling anxiety that not only stops you from going to the beach in your swimwear but holds you back at everything you do, from going into mental lockdown in gym class to not talking to people because you’re so convinced you look or act stupid or inadequate. And there’s no stopping it because no matter how much you try to rationalise it, in the end, your thoughts don’t follow on the same tracks as your rational mind. It’s a persistent nag that follows you through speaking, socialising and even paying for groceries. A weird, liminal existence where you feel both like the plainest, inconspicuous and worthless space between particles, and at the same time it feels like the eyes of the entire world is glued to your back, judging every move you make.

It’s not a fun place to be.

I’m aware that not everyone can relate to this experience since we all process things in different ways, so I’m not expecting anyone to take my anxious existence as gospel. Still, maybe it’ll help to hear that you’re not alone, that when you check yourself in the storefront glass for the seventeenth time because you’re sure that you’re doing something that makes you look stupid, it’s not just you. There are so many people out there that know the feeling. Of not knowing what to do with your arms, of feeling like just standing is already doing something wrong. That the people laughing nearby are laughing because you did something by merely existing in the same space as them. The exasperated teachers, the sighing family members, the constant conflict between wanting to do something but being held down by your own mind, it’s not just you. I get it, a lot of us do. It’s just hard to realise you’re not alone when you’re trapped so far inside your own thoughts. But you know what? It’s okay. It might not be healthy, but I’m not trying to tell you to fix yourself this very instant, or that you’re being stupid. I’m trying to tell you that it’s okay, it’s more than okay, to just be you, whatever that may entail. You can take all the time you want, because the world isn’t going anywhere, and it’s never too late to do the things you want to.

I sure as hell am taking my sweet time, and let me tell you, it’s a slow process. You have to rebuild both your idea of how the world sees you, and how you see yourself. It’s a weird combination of objective and subjective, of honest criticism and reassurances that you really are enough. That’s not to say that I’ve changed, no sir. I’m just as awkward and stiff as I have always been, but I’m finally coming to terms with it. I don’t need to care what other people think of me (easy in theory, hard in practice), and even then, it’s not as bad as I’d think. In the end, people are usually too focused on themselves to pay that much mind to you. It’s a cynical thought, but it really helped me. In the end, the person most aware of you is you.

But it’s still hard to brush away the crippling feeling of invisible eyes on you. It’s not something that can be cured by words either. No amount of telling you you’re being silly or the occasional “you’re fine, don’t worry” is going to magically dispel the looming feeling of judgment and inferiority hanging in the air. But you don’t need to care about that, because in the end, you don’t need to care about what anyone thinks of you. You’re you and it’s enough.

I still don’t have a camera face and most photos of me still look stupid, but the older I get the less I care. Not just about what other people think about me, but about my own subjective insecurities about myself. They’re still there, of course, because if rationalising your issues would automatically get rid of them, I’d be the happiest person on Earth, but I’m getting better and better at separating myself from my own unhealthy thoughts. It’s a slow process. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. It’s stupid and irrational and awkward and so, so worth it.

It won’t be the same for anyone, but that’s fine, too. This is only one awkward dork’s rambling account and even I would have some serious thinking to do before taking my own advice. But hey, maybe at least someone will find this helpful. Maybe my tale of long-term awkwardness will be enough to reassure at least someone out there that it will be okay, because, in the end, that’s the best-case scenario for me. But there’s no need to feel pressure to change. You’re you and who the hell could you even be besides that? So just take a deep breath.

The world isn’t going anywhere.

Photo by Vale Zmeykov, Unsplash