“Come on, you can do it. Look at me.” Bill Ott sat next to me, looking into my eyes, watching me flitter my glance all around the room and catch his gaze, just to bounce off it again. It was a simple youth camp exercise: just look your partner in the eye without saying anything. But I couldn’t do it. At age 13 I was completely incapable of holding a person’s gaze.
What was wrong with me? Why was I so incapable of allowing someone to look at me? I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to curl up inside myself and peer out from a safe place. Security was everything to me. It seemed my whole childhood was about sinking into my jacket, pulling the hood over my head, wishing I could cram into small spaces and exist unnoticed. But then it often felt I was on the outside looking in.
Other people seemed to be enjoying life while I was a mere spectator. How could those people be so carefree? Didn’t they consider what other people thought of them? Didn’t they obsess over how they were being perceived by society? By their family? By their friends? By the eyes that seemed to be watching even when they were completely alone?
“Look at me,” Bill whispered with a smile. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was a tall odd 19 year old in a black leather bomber jacket and lace up boots, but I knew he didn’t judge me. He was cool, but not intimidating. His face was welcoming, even in the shadows. But…I was completely incapable. I had trained myself not to be seen, despite longing to be noticed. I had occupied myself with studying the people all around me, but lost all ability to willingly be seen by another soul.
