Life in the panopticon
Losing myself to the aesthetic gaze
Article by Margalit Goldberg, art by Alex Wollinka
I’d love to frame a sober kiss taken from one of the rare moments I can think back on where I opened my body up to another without wanting to pull my heart out, throw it against the wall, and then zip tie it back into my chest. The act of intimacy is rarely embarrassing, but the moments I think about what I did or how I looked during them gives me a reaction so visceral I feel bile rising up my esophagus. Wincing at myself as if my existence is so humiliating others will get second-hand cringe.
I’m never worried that the person I’m with is judging me; I’m seeing myself through a third person’s eyes. And those eyes are conditioned to pinpoint the smallest flaws, the blemishes that are the definition of being human. They shed a layer of shame on every memory. Cobwebs, lint, hair, and dead skin cells contaminate the past and gather and grow because I’m not one to dust a shelf.
Although I can now reflect on how I’ve learned to view myself, I’m three layers too twisted in my mind, the knots of neurons so tangled that I can’t escape these thoughts. Sleep is the only escape I have from the unstoppable retribution imposed on me by this third-person perspective.
This self-awareness has expanded to every nook and cranny of my life. So much so that I habitually feel embarrassed when crossing the street alone. The vehement cognizance of the space I take up, the possibility I’m doing it wrong, and being in the way of people trying to get somewhere. It’s plausible to assume that everyone is focused on what they are doing themselves, but I still feel eyes on my body. I know that I’m a pedestrian and have the right of way, but I do not grant myself that level of importance.
I was taught that being alone means being more vulnerable to the violence of men. I’m constantly replaying in my mind all the ways I’ve been told how I could be harmed. Maybe I’m so focused on people-pleasing as some sort of twisted fear response, latching onto the idea that if men like the way I look and act, they won’t hurt me. I’m always letting a soft smile escape through clenched teeth as a preventative measure for my own demise.
I wish I could return to the time before female adolescence made me acutely aware of how others perceive me. Before the male conscience moved into my mind and began whispering into my ear. A lifetime supply of self-deprecating thoughts I wish my liver could filter out like vodka and cigarettes.
Take me back to the time before I had the sharp realization in sixth grade that if I wanted to be respected by my peers, I needed to change. My subjective self-view was formed. A view that universally becomes so important in every tween girl's life that they can no longer look at themselves for who they really are. Forever moving forward, there will be other people whose opinions matter more than genuine selfhood.
In middle and early high school, I dressed myself in black leggings, converse, and crop tops despite feeling grossly uncomfortable. I did this in the hopes of male attention and female validation. I’ve since traded in those staples for Carhartts, long sleeves, and thrifted T-shirts worn “ironically.” Yet, even as my style has evolved, I can’t help but know it’s still for others. I think about myself in relation to others more than in relation to myself.
The first time a boy broke up with me, I cried. Not because I’d miss him, but because I was afraid of what people would think of our short-lived relationship ending. I gave myself no space to reflect on what I had just experienced and only worried about the perception of others. How much of who I’ve become has been for others?
The determination I had as a 10-year-old to refuse to brush my hair and adhere to any dinner table manners has atrophied into shame and exhaustion from constant performance on behalf of others. What I’d give to be the multifaceted, sharp-cornered, quick-witted, bumbling child I once was. I felt no pressure to make my appearance or personality coherent. There was no aestheticization of my lifestyle sustained on social media platforms. What began as friend group photoshoots in front of my middle school’s brick walls evolved into pursuits for more individualistic photos where I sought to curate an overly-perfect representation of my life. Now we are in the midst of a call to make Instagram casual again so we can show how “naturally and effortlessly” beautiful we are. It is still a curation of an unattainable aesthetic, but maybe even more malicious because I’m lying to myself about how much effort it takes, denying the cost of my own performance.
I recently realized that I don’t actually want to go into STEM. I was just told enough times that there should be more women in STEM that I internalized it. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I don’t like science and math and that I feel guilty for feeling that way. I’m unlearning the entire “girl boss” era messaging of convincing young girls to be interested in careers that are dominated by men even if they’d rather be doing something entirely different.
Now I’m pulled to romanticize the nihilistic attitude that I and many other young people have succumbed to after the failure of “girl boss” feminism to make any real progress. I realized that I actually don’t want to be a CEO or a scientist, but that there was no other definition of success I could strive for. Now I’m attracted to the idea of being “in my Fleabag era”; to embrace self-destruction and fatalism at the cost of the friends and family I surround myself with. I go so far as to craft my flaws to be eaten, consumable, and digestible. An attitude those only privileged enough with white skin and conventional beauty can have. In contrast to fighting for progress, I’m attracted to languishing in my own individualized existence, and then performing a glorified version of that to others.
Sometimes, I put a shower cap on and stand under the water to hear so much noise I can’t think. The dull crash bars the voice in my head from whispering “what-ifs” in my ear. For a moment, it’s all just quiet. When I step out of the shower, my eyes are shut. When I open my eyes to meet my body reflected in the mirror, I gaze at it as if it's a man’s body. Which means I’ll take less time to think about its flaws. I’ll look at it as something whole, flesh that can’t be picked apart into the good and the ugly.
It’s easier to do this now that I’ve shaved my head. I removed what felt to me as one of my most feminine qualities. Is this because I feel more comfortable presenting masculine or does presenting masculine mean I’ll be more free from what I feel as constant scrutiny from a male perspective? I don’t think these two ideas can be separated from each other. I don’t think I’ll ever have the answers as to what it’d be like if I had never experienced the formative years of female adolescence.
Staring into the mirror, I wish that shaving my head had given me a total sense of self-realization. I wish that changing my appearance would remove all the ways I’ve internalized what it means to be a girl becoming a woman. Yet, I hate that altering the way I look confirms that my physical existence is just for people’s consumption. Will I ever live my life in first person or am I forever damned to being hyper-aware of how others perceive me? Will I ever stop feeling embarrassed when I cross the street alone? Will I ever be myself?