politics are found within the personal.

It is often assumed that individuals uninterested in politics are unintelligible. Instantly their humanity is negotiated and with it, even their respect. I have heard the sneering judgments and I am positive that I am not the only member in society that has tuned into the noise. My ears perk up and I can smell the belittlement from a mile away. Individuals who do not speak their opinion, do not have an opinion—furthermore they are not an individual! They do not care about life and therefore I will not care about them! Eyes are cast in an opposite direction and the inhumane-non-individuals become shadows of society. 

I swallow my spit and choose to rise above these triumphant champions. But I have questions about their lifestyle, too. Why is it they think one should wear a sign across their forehead that says, “I am clued into the world at large”? If one has an opinion, why does it need to be instantaneously stated and shouted to the public? Get off your high horse and listen to me! Stand at my level and let’s talk like equals. But I do not say any of that, and I shy away—feeling quite bad about my lack of intelligence. 

Wait—don’t discredit me now. I am intelligent. I am specialized in subjects. I have insatiable curiosity. I crave awareness. I have a subscription to The New York Times. What more can be asked of me to consciously participate? People tell me I read too much—that I am distracted by a preoccupation with perception! I swoon admirers with my perpetual passion and I have dedicated the last half of my life to the study of identity and the power to control the sight cast on one’s self. 

But yet, I silence my voice on the subject of the presidential campaign, the war, environmentalism.... Oh no, now you think I do not have a soul—that I am just a face. I am being held responsible for my biggest fear. The truth is I intersect political conversations with, “I am in no way an expert and do not know all sides of reason, but I believe...” I have an impulsive tendency to want to remain honest and genuine to the material I know—and what I know always revolves around what I have experienced, seen and as a result, feel. My politics are personal. My politics are based on the philosophy of ethics. My ethics are psychological. I pursue the philosophy of psychology—believing that the personal should not be belittled to generalizations, emotions should not be pigeonholed and that the individual should not be held accountable for mental and physical actions that are performed by collective and instated norms. Basically, my politics attest the person within the personality and who is responsible for the personal. My politics speak of one, but hopefully speak to many. And I hope to always establish that—that there are no formal answers because we are controlled by relative rationales and subjective truths. 

You see—I am interested. I am aware. I am moved to action. I want my actions to be moving. And I believe actions rely on the power of voice. We project meaning on to the world and we expect meaning to be derived. But individuals look for meaning in different places. Those that are passionate about the war look for meaning within the territory of countries, states and homes. Those that are a passionate about the environment project meaning on to nature. And me? I read into the physical and am empowered to have an intense understanding on the mechanics of thought—a subject entirely metaphysical. I find meaning within the heart of the body. I evaluate how it spreads upward to the mind. I follow it as it evolves from thought and is verbally projected into space at a certain time. I am impassioned by how individuals are moved to act. I want to know why humans begin to make a stance externally—whether in presidential campaigns, human rights, ect—what material is responsible for the substance produced from their voice. 

My mind is consumed elsewhere and on something that is not concrete. The news I am attracted to concentrates on meaning that is possibly not visually there, but has to be discovered. I literally have to read into what is being said, so I can unleash the essence and uncover the hidden truth. I practice deconstruction. 

But why is the intangible and unanswerable abstractions a theme I try and answer? Why is the reasoning that I am committed to something that does not have physical presence that can be laid before one’s eyes as proof and evidence? Why has the character of language been the political debate that is calling out to me in a voice that I cannot turn my back to? 

It feels impossible and yet, I have chosen it or it has chosen me. I am entrapped by the control of language—and instead of trying to pry loose, look for a way out in panic—I am fascinated. All possible meanings of deconstruction situate the reader, the thinker, the explicator in a situation of limitations. But yet, there is irony in that too—since the limit that language is bound by is the limit of always being able to go beyond, to seek further, to stop nowhere. I say this is binding because language is a discourse that provides an escape of thought, yet withholds attention and time. We need it to explicate the self’s existence—and therefore, it is an escape we seek and which proves to be inescapable. We desire it, we need it, we try and control it yet it controls us and decides the power of control we can have. 

Everything outside our self is beyond our control, and yet assumes relentless power over us. I wonder why external relations are given such responsibility—the ability to impact, influence and manage our life? I understand that one must see to know. And this deduction of the ways of the world convinces me that perception acts in two manners: one, as the instrument to prove that we exist and two, the weapon we fear can judge us. We need it but yet, we wish it would not inflict harm upon us. In other words, we want to control perception because we know it first determines and finally, affects us. 

So do I demonstrate resilience against the oppression of language’s limitations? Have I tried to control perception, so it cannot control me? Are you reading the words of a paradoxical writer whose sentences continue, but yet in circles—whose motifs are controlled by the obsessions that therefore, control her? Oh, I suppose I fall victim to my own patterns—that I would not represent what has not left an impression upon me—that my present presence is a product of my past. I cannot escape what I know and what I do not know will confront me at every corner.

You wonder now, what it is I know and what it is that confronts me requesting my concentration. I know only what I have traveled through and what I do not know is that which I have forgotten or is to be faced in the future—I am constrained by memories. But what came first, the memory or me? This is what I try to configure and refigure. It is motivated by the need to be knowledgeable on the subject of myself—to be intellectually insightful. I ask the same question—and know the two are linked—over whether my politics on persona came before or after my personal attention to my own character. My journals describe the travels of my mind. Therefore, my journals decide me. 

At a relatively early age, I did what was then found to be a brave and unique undertaking—I created an online journal. Eight years later I am one of many, doing something quite normal. Today almost everyone with a computer has an online life and with the rise of networking tools, most individuals—even those one may never have assumed—have created a profile on sites like Facebook. 

In the era of today, we are provided the opportunity to accelerate the awareness of ourselves. Technology awards this advantage. Online a world is stretched out wide beneath our fingertips—doors are opened with a click of the mouse, lives unfold across the screen and identities are exposed within a dot com. All participating cyber-users have the power to bring the world closer in, to see further out and to intangibly exist elsewhere as something. 

However, at the end of the day, the Internet is a resort one seeks out to pacify the addiction of needing control over the appearance of oneself. In my case, it was a chance to reach out and let myself be known as I knew I was, not solely as who I was perceived to be. Even with the rise in popularity, the intention of the Internet has not changed. It is still a medium for truth and genre for tale telling. It is still a chance to be made known. And that is why I took a leap of faith in the 8th grade and with a dot.com address let myself be followed through time in a single place others could rely I would be, my online site. 

It raised attention to not only myself, but the medium I was existing within—an intangible and non material generated model of space, time, memory and existence. The entries’ dates marked the passing time and also, my changing selves. It was remarkable and terrifying. Within a screen, I was contained—I could be seen, I could be read through, I could be decided. No matter how much I knew about myself, the box of words was still only a box that I was constantly changing within. And this box that was giving an account of myself was only an edited version of what I found appropriate for who I needed, wanted, decided or selected I was to be. However, my audience did not know this. They had no understanding that the edited entry that was exposed on the space of the screen was only a certain truth and a section of myself. And so, the multitudes of myself were narrowed down and my appearance online was where I, supposedly, existed wholly. 

In my beginning years online, I cannot remember being troubled by the reality of the Internet. I now reason, that was because no judgment had affected me negatively. Controlling what was explicated on my site, gave me the power to be judged in an according fashion. Readers felt I was deep, insightful and a young woman of faces: at once attractive and intensely internal—amusing and profoundly sensitized. My desire to be genuinely seen and candidly analyzed was judged as refreshing and empowering. And this exposed perspective enlightened and compelled viewers at large to be seen, heard and therefore, valued. 

I, too, felt empowered by my effect. What began as a dialogue with myself, which was read by classmates, had become a worldwide conversation with—mainly—females that were looking for truthful words on subjects that felt personally familiar. My addiction to control my appearance had evolved into a habit of revealing an appearance that resided internally. And by bringing this “I” to surface, I took on a new hope to provide insight on how others could control their emotions—their scars of experience. 

Of course no matter how many moments were dedicated to figuring my online figure, time carried me forth. Outside the Internet—within the real world—I was an active participant in my own experiences, experiences that scarred my skin and altered the landscape of my vision, as well. I went through plateaus of highs and lows—the lows that would not have been made known had it not been for my site, which sighted my spoken words that were comforting me and yet, determining my impression because language was controlling my representation. My boyfriend, at the time, was the first to act in a manner that disillusioned, conflicted and concerned me. He ended our seemingly special relationship because he believed a poem I had written and posted online had been about him. It had not been, but his judgment was out of my control and I could not convince him otherwise. This was the first occasion that reminded me of the control others had over who they imagined you to be. His judgment influenced my own judgment of myself and this effected me for, what can be traced through the journal, months of anguish. But the truth was simple—I had put myself out there to be judged and it had happened, so I had to let it go and embrace my effort. 

I eventually did and carried forth in a different direction with a new momentum. I was never entirely renewed though—in pictures I faked smiles and performed happiness—but people believed only what they saw, and they believed I was indestructible, determined and wiser because of it. As a result, my inbox began consuming another breed of reactions—the voice within the notes spoke with less praise. Hate mail tried to outnumber the sighs of admiration and when I presented myself with perseverance, the “non-fans” of my site—yet definite fans, since they kept frequenting my journal—got creative with their criticism. A separate website was designed and dedicated to quoting my words, featuring my photographs and degrading every realm of my being. This, too, attracted an audience and successfully controlled my own perception of myself. These slandering rejections distracted me and it was not until I swore to never visit the site again, that I was able to leave it behind completely.

Eventually, the attraction to the website lessened and died out completely. But mine never did—and the fact that my words never voiced those that were in opposition to me, enhanced my character and made others more dedicated to knowing or, rather, reading me. I received letters, had visitors from England and unfortunately, became a commodity—a contradiction to what I believed the Internet was devoid of, a material object.

I never wanted to blame matter outside myself though. I never wanted to let myself feel victimized by what was inevitably my own self-doing. I kept with the journal—my life kept being documented and followed—and I continued to offer myself up to judgment, knowing that perception was inescapable. However, the effects of judgment were inescapable, as well—regardless of one’s strength. 

The outside peering in finally scared me. I had arrived at college—and without knowing a single student—was instantly spotlighted as the “mysterious and intimidating creature online”. Before personally meeting me, my roommates believed they knew me—and yet, I was still trying to remember their names. I felt like I was not participating with the world—that I was removed from it—that it decided me before I had focused on paying it attention—and this made me feel guilty. I resorted to my single dorm room and created a world of my own which became known as “Chelsea’s Cave”. Encompassed by bright colors, onlookers envisioned the color of my room to be the temperature of my heart. Windows that stared out onto laughing student dorms similarly stared into my silent situation. Overconfident females knocked on my door and exclaimed they had seen me from across the way and had to introduce themselves because I “seemed hip”. I shook hands and forgot their name, but they continued to look into my empty room and were given the opportunity to glimpse into my heart, which was just as empty. I waited in line for the elevator and would be stopped and told that, “You’re going to win!” Win what?—it escaped me. “America’s Next Top Model!” Such verbal comments were followed by typed reactions on Facebook: “You’re a celebrity!” “Just be famous already!” How was this happening? I hid out in my room and escaped to New York City and Miami every weekend. No one knew me the way I had hoped one would during my college years. But people found this more glamorous—more mysterious—more expected of an infamous persona. But I was escaping because for the first time, I was able to be silent and still be noticed—still be talked over—still be impacting, though I knew I was being boring. 

I resorted further into the Internet but for the first time, I began peering into the lives of other online personas. I feared what I saw, which was relationships that mirrored upon my past: smiles, interaction, social events and activity. But there was no movement in my life and this made me feel all of two things—unlikable and missing the ability to make a friend ever again. The images of the Internet and my image on the Internet made me feel empty. During this time, the female spectacles in the media were falling subject to eating disorders. Spectators were holding them accountable for perfection—and hoping to achieve entitlement, celebrities tried to become what they assumed was expected of their role as a public persona in view to the world. I thought I was exempt from such vulnerability—I imagined I was beyond being controlled by idealizations. But as the ever existing streams of consciousness and photographs of myself depict, I was influenced by the power of eyes and the impression that would result and consequently, directed my behavior within the confines of restrictive eating. I remember explicating myself, “I filled my stomach with what my heart felt—emptiness.” I believed it was my only way of seeing myself differently—of controlling an unfulfilling year with an experience that would change me forever—of slapping an image across the Internet viewer’s face that screamed, You did not know me. You did not see what I felt. 

It worked. And ironically, I felt few feelings over it. I arrived home from college and for the first time, no one could stand to look at me. I needed no words—onlookers had their own that they, without regard, voiced to me. My inbox became filled again with letters of terror, disgust and comments insisting that I had betrayed what they believed I stood for. Whereas my mother left a card by my desk reading, “Don’t let ANYONE – ANYTHING get in your way. It’s yours for the taking. I always believe in you.” And there were a few other concerned individuals motivating me to “stay strong Chelsea” and revealing the reassuring “just know I love you.” All doings were on the surface small gestures, but the depth to which they continue to penetrate is nothing that can be denied. 

Thinness had become the new ideal and for the handful of people that hated me, there were even more that loved me. Dedicating communities to my figure and stealing my pictures for their own identity, females predicted that I was the up and coming model and with such a title, felt they wanted to be me. This was the first time I truly saw myself online. And recognizing what I had become, I did not return to my journal the entire summer—this was my first disappearance in six years. My best friend turned into my boyfriend and our romance took on its own element of fascination that distracted attention from my plummeting weight. Our photographs and presence captivated crowds of viewers; and they once again believed what they saw—a smiling face and mystifying eyes. It was then I knew that I was inescapable from myself. I would be seen—in words or no words, with curves or bones—the way others felt they wanted to perceive me. 

My weight dropped to 80 pounds. But it was not until months after the doctor told me I could die if I continued with the same mentality, that I actively attempted to let the perspective that was controlling me die. I came back to the journal after a year and a half. The world-wide-web had been my home for so many years and to an extent it was me—it still echoed my voice and it still told of my existence. But this time I relocated myself—distancing myself from my original website, I positioned myself in the dot.com of a new one. There are no entries that date my past selves—although I am entirely open to their memories. Being figuratively born anew, I am assumed to be a new persona framed by a different time, that does not document a glorified adolescent nor a starving soul; although they are present within the thoughts behind my words, whether I am conscious of it or not. 

But why would I come back? Perhaps because I have a new body of words that represent my passion to perfect myself as an author and not as a socialite. Perhaps it is to gain control over the lasting impression that existed so vividly in the minds of my viewers. Perhaps I am still working through a debate with myself. Perhaps I need the material that is documented on the website to even have a debate with myself. Perhaps my past incentive still takes precedence over my present. Perhaps I know I had always been perceived a particular way because the language on my website controlled who I was believed to be—and now I cannot escape my relationship with language. Perhaps the memory of the power I had to genuinely influence the perspectives of others gives me hope that I can continue where I left off. Or perhaps I need a record of myself to know my self at all; and I am only driven by the pressure of other’s perception on and over me. 

The possibilities are inescapable. There is no definitive answer. There is no absolute in the analysis of memory, language or existence. But there can certainly be reason. People can claim my attention and attraction to online journaling is egotistical, but I see myself beyond such terms. I know there has been appreciation and criticism that, thankfully, inspired me. Therefore, I know there is an audience my voice has and hopefully can continue to speak to. I hope I represent a quality of relativity and can use my experiences to address universal concerns that are internalized. I hope those that are using their perception can tell that one must be committed to achieving knowledge, if one is to feel anything at all. And one must feel in order to make action—in order to move a soul—in order to empower one’s self and those that are looking for elevation, as well.