Own Work - short story
by Axel Sturmann
In my home I am not alone. I am observed, watched, judged, found wanting. Constantly. At any moment. I am like a creature in a laboratory, a disease beneath the microscope, an amoeba in a petri dish. It is glass-walled and round – no corners to creep into, no shadows to hide in, no escape – a cell.
Doctors, uninvited, muttering beneath their breath, impersonal behind gowns and masks peer in. They monitor me, scrutinise, evaluate and judge me. Always judging, and muttering. They show nothing in return, not from behind the masks that create shadows for their eyes: no vulnerability, no crack, no emotion, no need, no fear, no weakness. How can they be so cold, so perfect? Are they human, too? I can't be sure. Don't dare be sure. They are so strong, so self-assured. I am the only one with weakness. This is understood, accepted, expected.
I am exhausted. Always on my guard, always being studied for flaws. I try to run, to find a place to hide, someplace safe where for a moment I can let down my guard, relax, be myself; my weak, vulnerable, scared, insecure, pathetic, real self. And not be judged for it. Not condemned. To just be… In that moment… Vulnerable… Vulnerable and safe.
But there is nowhere. Even the closet is too small – believe me, I have tried. Even the gap beside the bed, that too little space, no use.
I live in a psycho-ward; a mental case, a desperate one, the only one; crawling along the corners of the cell walls. A cell with mirrored-windows and cameras always looking in. But a cell without padding, without protection; sharp objects abound; plates to smash, knives to slash. This temptation, in the moment, is huge – a snap decision, an instantaneous micro trip-switch somewhere hidden in the screaming chaos of my brain clicks in and stops the destruction a second's fraction before it is too late. How? Why? Who controls it? Where is it? Will it always work? Does it come with a guarantee? I do not know. I have no control. I can only trust. I have no choice.
It seems odd, but I can leave any time. It is, after all, just my home. Take the front door and the elevator, or one step over the 8th floor balcony. So far I've only taken the elevator. I don't always know why.
Sometimes it's nice going out, for a while. When I 'm strong. When I'm prepared. When choose to go there. When I can wear my mask; feign strength, confidence and abilities I do not have. I know when to laugh, to joke, to show compassion, understanding; to share a semblance of wisdom, to entertain, to charm. I can do this for a while, my act is polished, I have practiced for years.
So long as it's only for a while – a predetermined time for which I can plan, prepare, or avoid if I am not ready – appointments cancelled by SMS, no human contact required, no feedback, no explanation needed, no chance that my voice will reveal my fear, my truth.
But I always need my refuge, a place to hide, to recharge my batteries, to practice my lines. A place to be myself; my petrified, feeble, frightened self. I hate the lies. I am exhausted from the lies. The constant pressure to perform. If all the world's a stage, then home should be my dressing room. The one place where I can prepare, can practice, can cry out my shame-filled fear of failure; can scream my insecurities to the face in the make-up mirror or the few I allow in whom I know will not harm me, will not use my weakness against me, who I pray will not do so. It should be the one place I can be vulnerable, where I can openly puke my stage-fright fears into the bucket before the curtain call, before I must again perform, lie, give my all of what the audience does want, no, demands.
Who is this person I do act? This fraud I envy so? This man of charm and whit and brains and dashing looks? Or so I kid myself until my reflection I do see; glimpse it in a mirror, a glass, or in the flicker of recognition in my harshest critics' eyes. They are there. Everywhere. In the audience. All about. I swear. Every one an actor and a ruthless critic too. Show weakness for a moment and they will pounce, slashing with their pens in their headlines they will shout; ‘a fraud’, ‘a weakling’, ‘no backbone’, ‘a failure through and through’. Headlines, conviction, and sentence for all the world to see.
How right they are.
Oh how I want to flee.