stripped raw
A couple of the PhD students from our research group gave presentations on their work this evening. My supervisor had asked me to come along to lend my support to them. Despite the lure of free food, I didn't feel like going. I wanted some space and a quiet evening at home. I was about to head off to the bus stop when I got to joking around with one of the students who was about to speak in front of the big important academics. He was artificially jovial, jittery, and filled with pent up energy. He wanted a few friendly faces in the crowd, and asked me if I was coming along. I told him I would.
---
It would have been a couple of months ago now. I'd had a horrible weekend, and felt on the verge of tears as I was riding the bus on the way to uni. My lung felt great, I'd bulked up a lot in the gym. Physically, I felt perfect, but in my head, the scars from that period felt more raw than ever. I should probably have been mentally rehearsing the presentation that I was meant to be giving in front of my research group later on in the day, but all I could think about was the person that I'd let myself create. I was hoping that others could still see through the thick web of an identity that I'd been consumed by, and that they could still see the good person that lived behind it all. But the more I thought about it, the thicker the web became, and by the time the bus had stopped I was so confused and tangled up that I didn't even remember if the goodness had ever existed.
By the time I was meant to do my presentation, I don't know where my head was at. I felt as though I was trying to build myself up, but there was nothing there, and when I stood up in front of everyone I felt completely exposed. So I spoke from wherever I was.
After the talk, people smiled and were friendly. I felt them looking at me like a fragile child. They told me that they thought my talk was real good, and it felt patronizing.
---
This evening, after the students' presentations, I traveled home on the bus with the postdoc that I am currently working with. She was talking about her own demeanor when giving presentations, and said that she was sure people could tell that her nerves affected her when she presented. She thought that it must be awkward for the audience. That wasn't true. I'd heard her speak before. Sure, you could faintly feel the butterflies that must have been in her stomach, but the honesty and self deprecating confidence that came through certainly didn't make me feel awkward.
After a few moments, I asked her what she thought of my presentation earlier on in the year. She said that she thought that it was great, and there was no condescending look in her eye. She said that she thought that I was confident, funny, and genuinely interested in what I was doing. I told her about the crappy weekend I'd had before the talk, and how low I'd felt about myself beforehand. When she told me that it really didn't come across at all, I believed her, and it made me feel better. I used to have faith that whatever was left at the core was good and worthwhile in everybody. Perhaps I was right all along.
---
It would have been a couple of months ago now. I'd had a horrible weekend, and felt on the verge of tears as I was riding the bus on the way to uni. My lung felt great, I'd bulked up a lot in the gym. Physically, I felt perfect, but in my head, the scars from that period felt more raw than ever. I should probably have been mentally rehearsing the presentation that I was meant to be giving in front of my research group later on in the day, but all I could think about was the person that I'd let myself create. I was hoping that others could still see through the thick web of an identity that I'd been consumed by, and that they could still see the good person that lived behind it all. But the more I thought about it, the thicker the web became, and by the time the bus had stopped I was so confused and tangled up that I didn't even remember if the goodness had ever existed.
By the time I was meant to do my presentation, I don't know where my head was at. I felt as though I was trying to build myself up, but there was nothing there, and when I stood up in front of everyone I felt completely exposed. So I spoke from wherever I was.
After the talk, people smiled and were friendly. I felt them looking at me like a fragile child. They told me that they thought my talk was real good, and it felt patronizing.
---
This evening, after the students' presentations, I traveled home on the bus with the postdoc that I am currently working with. She was talking about her own demeanor when giving presentations, and said that she was sure people could tell that her nerves affected her when she presented. She thought that it must be awkward for the audience. That wasn't true. I'd heard her speak before. Sure, you could faintly feel the butterflies that must have been in her stomach, but the honesty and self deprecating confidence that came through certainly didn't make me feel awkward.
After a few moments, I asked her what she thought of my presentation earlier on in the year. She said that she thought that it was great, and there was no condescending look in her eye. She said that she thought that I was confident, funny, and genuinely interested in what I was doing. I told her about the crappy weekend I'd had before the talk, and how low I'd felt about myself beforehand. When she told me that it really didn't come across at all, I believed her, and it made me feel better. I used to have faith that whatever was left at the core was good and worthwhile in everybody. Perhaps I was right all along.
posted by Gene at 10:10 pm
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