thinking about myself too much
postcard 21: on self consciousness, the spotlight effect, and are we too obsessed with ourselves?
I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.
prelude
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He spoke, and returned madly to the same reflection, and his tears stirred the water, and the image became obscured in the rippling pool. As he saw it vanishing, he cried out:
‘Where do you fly to? Stay, cruel one, do not abandon one who loves you! I am allowed to gaze at what I cannot touch, and so provide food for my miserable passion!’
—Metamorphoses, Ovid
I had a tragic mishap during the winter break of my high school freshman year.
I was getting ready to go out and had just put on sunscreen on my face. I began curling my eyelashes, but my hands were still slippery from the sunscreen and my wrist twisted while the eyelash curler was on my eye. And in a split second, I accidentally ripped out every single eyelash on my left eye. It hurt, but I couldn’t even feel it because of the sheer anticipatory dread of the mortification that comes with having no eyelashes on one eye.
Nothing would make the lashes grow back, so I returned to school in January, terrified that someone would comment on it. I was fourteen and incredibly self-conscious, hyper-cognizant of every single thing I deemed a flaw on my face and body. I had yet to grow my self confidence and didn’t completely fit into my skin, and having no eyelashes was possibly the worst thing that could happen to me. I overlined my left eye. I braced myself. If someone makes a joke, makes fun of me, I told myself, I’ll just laugh it off. I practiced it in my head, once, twice, thrice.
