kill the voyeur in your head
or, you know, befriend her?
Weekends are administrative; I submit my polished work to journals, I think “maybe this time.” My desk, a mess of tchotchkes. A deck of Jane Austen tarot cards, four candles with varying scents depending on mood. A painting my boyfriend did of soot sprites with a cloud that looks suspiciously like a dolphin. I want to take a picture, but first I have to dust.
My eyes are a camera lens, and it’s hard not to view life through a filter of screens. Is my life aesthetic enough? I need to re-wind my soft tape measure, clean my monitor. I see things as if I am an actor in my favorite show; do it for the plot.
Sita and Sarita, c. 1921 - Cecilia Beaux
As writers, aren’t we all observers? Yet I find my best work comes from the times when I’m absorbed in the environment. Laughing with my friends, or grieving my dad’s cat, or kissing my boyfriend’s face. When the voyeur, ever-anxious and observing, is shut out.
Is it the writer in me or the anxiety? Do I view my life through this disconnected lens because I am an observer of human nature, even my own, or do I disassociate myself from the physical, become an outsider, as a protective measure?
I think it’s a symptom of my internet exposure. I think lots of young women feel this phenomenon of being a voyeur in their own head, to some degree, perhaps in some other manifestation. Whether it’s through a vlog camera or the male gaze, we all seem to be performing instead of living. The Margaret Atwood quote has haunted me since I first saw it (admittedly on tumblr in 2013):
“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride
I’ve never read The Robber Bride (hold off the pitchforks), but I know it was published in the 90s. 1993 to be exact, a few years before my own birth.
Our mothers, and sisters, and aunts, and friends and all other women have been experiencing this, this male voyeur in their head. A lens distorting and disconnecting them. It’s not a new phenomenon. It’s evolved since then, with the rise of social media, the 24/7 access to cameras in our pockets and an internet connection to share those pictures. There’s more than a man in our heads; there’s a worldwide audience.
Despite posting my little ramblings on here, I’m terrified of anything picking up any real traction. Virality is a phobia. I’ve reread Cat Person and the subsequent drama recently. Is there a line between enough success and notoriety? I want my work read, but I want to disappear. Can I banish the voyeur if I change who I am?
I want to live authentically, and I want that authenticity to be as aesthetic as possible. A carefree snapshot for my Instagram profile. I’m hyper-conscious of people who see what I post, even with my micro-audience. But to be read is to be seen and I fear that when writing, I am overtly conscious of that audience inside my head. It breaches not just my anxiety surrounding my sense of self, but my creative works, my output. But it’s in all things.
How do we stop performing for others; how do we stop our brain from filtering our life through this perceived audience? Or maybe it’s just me, my anxiety. Aware of being seen, filmed by strangers when I do something odd in public. People post photos of license plates on Reddit. because some asshole cut them off. We see a person existing in a way that makes us laugh and record to upload for internet clout. We want the attention other people give us. We force attention onto strangers for it.
I wonder if this hyper-vigilance is because of this new reality. Do we all transpose an external viewer into our heads to monitor ourselves? How will this continue as generations, born into this world with a little computer-cum-camera in their pockets from toddler-hood?
Will it ever be possible to kill the voyeurs in our heads when we live in such a digitally-interconnected world?
Currently, I have no answer on how to kill the voyeur in my head. If anything therapy has taught me is that these measures are maladaptive mechanisms my mind has done to protect me. I think that’s nice, if unwanted. For me, I need to disconnect my worth from social media, my desire for the most beautifully composed photo. The most poignant words. Kill the audience that dictates what I write, trying to control how I’ll be perceived when I send my work and myself into the world. I’m writing not for an audience, but for that intrinsic need to share.
I fear we’ll never kill it, but maybe we can befriend the voyeur in our heads. If I finally listen to what she’s trying to tell me, acknowledge her, maybe she’ll feel safe enough to be quiet.