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There are not only two but three kinds of people. The ones that adore openly talking about themselves, the ones who don’t mind doing so, and the ones who do mind and maybe blush a little.

I would rather belong to the second group but I belong to the latter. I mean, I could depict episodes of my life but none of them would be sufficiently interesting to me. Therefore I guess neither to you. In order to confide something the least relevant or sentimental straightforwardly, I’d have to trust in you, or lie a bit.

Exaggerate, cover up with literary devices or stylistic maneuvers. And I shouldn’t. Because while I don’t know who I am, I do know that whenever I must present myself I’m incapable of displaying those charms.

Usually all I am capable of is writing or talking about a different subject, subtly letting people pathologize me. Just kidding, I’m normal and so are you, right? Also, my hypothesis is that you must be tired by now.

If I were a teacher, I’d be tired too. Life is pain, some like to say, especially in these times. And in the fantasy of life being pleasurable, who’d want to be burdened with the chore of revising approximately 50 essays by students instead of reading real authors, sleeping, or simply doing nothing.

But do not be deceived. Don’t let me manipulate you into thinking I’m such an empath that I only care about you. It’s clear I’m also afraid of myself. If I were to write and reread an intimate essay several times, looking for narrative errors would implicitly suggest looking for the inevitable mistakes made in my life.

Moreover, in the case I tried to be funny, proofreading would just make me question how unfunny I am. I’d be cringey and then we, both of us, would avoid making eye contact in class.

Speaking of which, I wouldn’t trust my intentions to unpack strategic stories to make you laugh or cry, as I imagine you don’t trust our intentions either. Grades ruin writing and reading for us. I’d prefer you stating, “Yay, this one’s just as meh but at least she didn’t attempt anything profound.” If you take something from my piece, then please take that.

However if you’re feeling impatient because I’m getting nowhere with this, you can derive joy from the fact that you won’t have to act reassuringly or look at me in a certain special somber-yet-hopeful way afterwards. By which I mean, like in that Marina Abramovic show at MOMA. You in the classroom lecturing while gazing deeply into my eyes, or vice versa. Yikes!

I’m not sure of being avoidant but it’s pretty clear that we want to avoid that. What I want is no pressure for any of us, no forced intensity, no hand on heart need to promise a non-disclosure agreement. I’d be okay if you even asked yourself, “What did she write?”

It’s like this article I was reading about “the universal and embarrassing tendency to avert one’s gaze when caught looking at someone else”. Apparently this is scientific data: the brain doesn’t command the eyes to follow other people’s gaze but to react according to other people’s minds.

All to say, while reading this personal essay, were you following the flow of my narration or were you following the flow of my mind? I want to believe that self-representation, whether for oneself or for the others, is more often than not a little bit awkward, a little bit off. That to make you really see me, I must make you look away from me. Stare until I notice you, then avert your eyes✧