Watching You, Watching Me

I'm starting with the (wo)man in the mirror...and radical objectivity

thought of the day: I am always talking to myself. I kind of imagine my internal dialogue as a spool of film, one which is miles long and written in chicken scratch and it makes no sense to anybody but me and God.

listen while reading

Dadu Shin, “Here and There” (2021)

11.27.24

“And so I find myself here” - my mantra in November

The past six or seven weeks have unleashed, in me, a type of emotional apathy which I had not yet experienced in my 23 years of life. In trying to intellectualize this phenomenon I find myself asking is it detachment? depression? exhaustion?

When I receive unpleasant feedback or frustrating news it is like my brain knows I should be upset, but my heart cannot catch up. For a small moment I think maybe I am just used to guilt being an agonizing jab, as opposed to a small ‘tap.’ What I think has really happened, though, is that I just do not care. Nothing is personal, even when it happens to me.

I take a lot of time to assess and respond to a situation. I take deep breaths and lots of brain breaks. Really, I just think the shape of my empathy has changed. It no longer feels like I am precariously balancing on the precipice of a great anguish, as I wrote in an old journal in 2022. Mostly, it just feels like nothing. Not nothing as lack, but, rather, abundance.

note: I have not always been keen on that word. It used to make me feel like I was impersonating those Ojai, valley-of-the-damned, yogi cult leaders (usually named Elizabeth or something).

I want for nothing, truly. As I type this I have to acknowledge that I am in a position of great privilege to write about how all my needs are fulfilled. But also, those who engage with me face-to-face can testify that I rarely miss a moment to thank God — or the universe or Mother Nature, whatever the reader prefers (although Ada Límon might argue they are all the same thing) — for the gifts in my life. In the simplest words, it feels as if I have settled into my skin. At least, my skin as it is now. In order to visualize, I suggest thinking about how a house “settles,” but eventually sighs into something solid and dependable. It will shake, surely, but not blow away. Fear is an abstract possibility, not a direct threat.

At the beginning of November I wrote “I can’t tell if this is a phase or a transition into an entirely new value system of/in my life / I can’t stop feeling like an asshole / i cannot tell what is happening to me besides life.” In an attempt to apologize for (and maybe secretly justify) my extended sabbatical from social interaction I have been telling my friends that I had to “go away for awhile” and am now ready to slowly emerge. This “going away” is really just a deliberate turning inward. It kind of feels like I have made little hallways and caves inside of myself and, like a bear, I prepare myself for hibernation with the hope that the version of myself that re-emerges is, somehow, better. Normally, my winter hibernation is a “flop” because I take no real steps to improve my mental state and, instead, confine myself to the four walls of my room. As you will recall, I am certain that the shape of my empathy has changed. I believe the shape of my depression has, as well.

About this, I recently wrote “I have no energy to do anything except tasks which feel fundamental to my mental sanity. Journaling or writing a Substack post feel like less effort, at times, than calling a friend or taking a shower or getting up to collect the food I ordered because I didn’t have the energy to make something (and I hate cooking) - complete isolation is the only way I can settle. I find a similar comfort in being in a room full of strangers or in a country where I do not speak the language. Because I have no obligation to socialize, I can turn towards myself. My interiority expands. I exist only in dialogue with myself. It’s a bit like being in a trance, I reckon. Or like standing under an awning during a rainstorm and watching bodies rush by, become dulled and blurry. Or, I guess, a bit like being the first to wake up at a sleepover. Time belongs entirely to you. There is nobody holding you accountable for each minute or hour that passes. The deceleration of time is a delicious freedom.

My most recent read, James Baldwin’s “Just Above My Head.” I just need to say I had my epiphany prior to reading this and then felt very validated in it. #thankyoujames

What has been most odd about this change is that it feels like I have gained, in some way, an invisible friend. I take a lot of walks and frequently enjoy watching my own shadow go by, but lately it feels like something has been following me — I see the shadow of someone who, when I turn around, has vanished. Because I am a young woman living in a big city, I was paranoid at first and walked with my hands in my pockets. On the defense. What I turned away from physically, my shadow self snuck in mentally. I told my friend, Ali, that I had a moment a couple weeks ago where, upon waking, I heard a soft voice whisper “I love you.” I was in that hazy post-roused state wherein the shape of your room is not yet clear and it feels like everything has been moved an inch. I chalked it up to a long-lost lover in my dream sending me off, but it is only recently that I sat and considered that it might have been a subconscious version of myself speaking to my present consciousness (does any of this make sense? like for yes, repost for no). To be blunt, I do not think I have ever said the words “I love myself” out loud, as a full sentence. It is usually a pre-amble to something else or I use it as a distant, potential goal. I am not sure how a declaration of self-adoration could be so weighted, but it is. I held that “I love you” moment to myself. It felt like I had been given a small revelation from the universe, one that would be taken away if I spoke it out loud.

What I am trying to say is that, after ignoring myself for much too long, I have begun to meet myself at my own door. I am in a profoundly intimate relationship with my personhood. To quote the same friend, Ali, I am “re-evaluating every component of my desires.” It has become clear to me not only what I deserve, but what I want. It has taken my mouth a long time to form around these words.

This is one of those instances where, as humans, we believe some things to be intrinsic and not worthy of direct acknowledgement. Yet, for those of us who claim the term “selfless” — or, honestly, just went to Catholic school or are, like, Irish or something — this is not a reflexive question. The first time someone asked me what I want I believe I went into shock for a couple seconds. And after that shock came a deep, burning shame. I used to say that “if you do not know who you are, then what do you know?” and, now that I have fallen from my soap box, I am forced to put myself in the proverbial hot seat (did I use the word ‘proverbial’ correctly? Does someone want to check? It feels right..) and ask what the hell I even know, because it definitely was not myself.

Knowing myself comes from knowing my desires. I talk about the “shape of my life” a lot, and realize that this shape comes from what I want. I previously associated this want with something bigger than me — world peace, wealth, a fast metabolism — but I feel as though it is very simple. I had an unexpected moment of clarity, on November 15th, where I wrote that I wanted to be a novelist who got invited to countries around the world to attend galas wherein myself and other novelists were nominated for some obscure award. I realized that my goal was not to win, but to simply be invited. To be recognized and respected. To feel like I had something to say and people enjoyed me saying it. For a microsecond I felt guilty for not being more ambitious. But think about what this dream of mine would entail…Writing a book? Check. Getting flown out to a foreign city? Check. Spending whole days talking about literature while witnessing living history? Check. I am sure I am ignoring the granular details like press and planning and flying, but the general outline honestly seems pretty great.

I have a fairly impulsive writing style, meaning some pieces of this entry were written on the back of a menu, some in the margin of my calendar, and some hastily jotted down, not even as ideas just words like “baldwin reference” and “ali/desires/garden” and “pinterest poem house settling” on a sticky note. This is the same way I wrote essays in college - once I had the big ideas all I had to do was fill in the gaps (I am one of those people that work harder, not smarter). I believe that I have taken the fragments of ideas that aligned the most for this Substack, and therefore have come to a natural stopping point. I have six entries currently drafted but fear that I recycled the bookmarks that some of them were finished in so….not sure when those will be seeing this platform. I am quite content with what I was able to collect and write down, today and hope that all my readers had something that brought them a small joy on the day they are reading this, as well.

Again, thank you to all the people who have subscribed or reposted or commented or even just viewed my work, you are all making my dreams come true! Happy Holidays to those who celebrate and Happy Life to those who do not. Lots of love.

Bye,

Jasmine <3

Proof of writing method. My journaling handwriting and proper handwriting are quite different, but I like the scratchy, desperate nature of this. It kind of feels like I am writing in a secret code. You have to have the context to write something the way I would.