Now You “See” Me, Now You Don’t.

An open letter to art school grads, or to anyone whose lexicon includes the word, “Namasté.”

Communication can be exhausting — I used to pass out on my bed for an hour or so after sending a single text. (No joke.) Although I was used to the fatigue that came along with recovering from illness, I knew that there must have been another reason for the lethargy I experienced post-communication.

And so I delved deeper, and frankly, I was shocked by what I discovered. (Woo, anxiety!)

The fear that I may not be living up to someone’s expectations, or, really, their unspoken assumptions about how someone else should be, tends to rule over (most of) my ability to interact with others. Perhaps some of this is internalized, but it is hard to maintain a boundary between myself and the other person, unless that person is someone I can trust, like a close family member. But, as most folks know, even family can be difficult when it comes to respecting boundaries.

As humans, and as survivors, we want to feel safe (a.k.a. accepted and liked by) those who are closest to us, and sometimes even acquaintances. But here’s the catch: bypassing the initial discomfort of a new friendship or relationship by adopting an “I see you,” mentality is not always the ticket to a healthy, trusting relationship. In fact, it might backfire, because the person on the receiving end may feel like a human see-saw: teetering between self-assertiveness and complacency, or accepting how the other person views them as absolute truth. It may cause the person you are trying to connect with to instinctively back away, even if temporarily. Or, that person may be exhausted by the constant, underlying urge to express their individuality.

Here is an example:

You have just reconnected with a group of old friends. Everyone welcomes you and wants to make you feel comfortable. And it feels great (as it should!) But what happens when you can’t find the lines between what they see in you and what you see in you? What happens when your feelings and opinions get swept up into the sea of collective thoughts, feelings, and opinions? And how much does it really matter?

Anyone who has experienced trauma likely understands this problem with boundaries. Maybe it is hard to stay separate (psychically, spiritually, or what have you) from other folks, or from a partner. Maybe the path to recovery looks like a loop-de-loop roller coaster some days. (Or maybe you’re like me and end up f — ing astro-projecting.)

College Aged Apathy

Perhaps this issue of blurred boundaries, for lack of a better term, has no better place than the Liberal Arts environment. Queue the “art school” kids, a demographic that includes myself, at least in part. (I have spent a cumulative single semester at private liberal arts colleges — one on the East Coast and another on the West — and took a medical leave of absence from both.) But, in my distance from these places, I have become somewhat of an onlooker, connecting with peers, and even an academic adviser or two, from schools in the area.

Such campuses are home to people who — granted, without meaning to — can use mental illness as leverage, or even as a political statement. They act as if identity were a card game, competitive in nature. And while I can understand that some people may feel defensive after reading a statement like this, because rebuilding yourself from the ground up is difficult and beyond exhausting, I also understand that there is a difference between authenticity and over-identification with certain aspects of ourselves. AKA: My suffering, no matter how real it is in the Here and Now, ought not define my existence.

Let’s talk about apathy — often confused with realism — that plagues college campuses. Frankly, I kind of love apathy. It can feel good, and powerful. It is very tempting to believe that I know the “truth,” and to “pull people into my hurricane,” as the Solange song goes. But if you step outside of the Purchase border, or the confines of Oberlin or Reed College or any of those fairy-land places (trust me, part of me does love your bubble) then you might get enough distance to see that those people in your life actually exist outside of you. (The horror!)

In the professional world (not that I am, by any means, a “professional”) this type of arrogance doesn’t usually fly. Let’s take the film world, for example. Until one actually knows what they are talking about, until they have made several films, done their research, and worked with actors and production crews, they are going to be making things up, and that is OK. It is OK to express passion and to ask questions. It is OK to thank people a million times, and to voice gratitude.

Some people may take this expression as b/s (“flattery will get you everywhere,” etc) but are we really that important as 20-something year olds, that if someone compliments or acknowledges our work, we should be so flattered?

To Be Seen Or Not To Be Seen

Being seen, or being on someone’s “level,” can also be plain terrifying, even momentarily. It can feel like committing to a way of being, like signing some kind of invisible contract, in which I decide to put aside certain beliefs, weaknesses, insecurities or sensitivities in order to have a back-and-forth with this person. Eventually, though, I will come back to myself, or my “center” (as the yogi’s say). Those parts of me do not simply “disappear” forever; or, at least, that is what I have been told.

But sometimes being seen, even if through distant technology, can be so thrilling. It can be simultaneously energizing and scary to experience that type of connection — where you feel almost naked, human, and real. I have had phone conversations, for example, after which I walk away feeling “adult;” responsible and living a continued narrative, because someone has reiterated things I have said or done in the past, and ways I have affected them, or the relationship.

On the other hand, if I feel comfortable around certain people, and if I like their “world,” so to speak, then the blending between myself and them may not be as noticeable. (In this case, I am working off the assumption that whomever I am with feels emotionally/psychically/spiritually whole.)

This theory of self-hood is especially relevant in activism, queer spaces, and any community in which we are either fighting for a common goal or connecting over a personal passion/interest. The collective momentum is intoxicating, and is what fuels both creative projects and change on a larger scale (i.e. rallies, protests, etc). But it can also be a bit confusing for people who feel emotionally fragmented, as a result of trauma. In such cases, I suppose the questions to ask ourselves would be: what are we willing to compromise, change or give up in order to achieve a common goal? Is it enough to try and “be the change” while we are healing, by expressing ourselves more authentically (i.e. taking steps toward “presenting” as genderqueer, if you feel a different gender expression suits you other than the one you were assigned at birth). Should we wait until we are further along in recovery to speak out? And is there any middle-ground?

Any thoughts, arguments, or responses would be appreciated. (And if you still want to be friends with me after reading this, bless you…)

xoxo, Glossip Qurl