On Trying To Be Seen

Jan 13

And not feeling gross about it…

I am not a writer. I am a performer who happens to write.

I write to keep my anxious brain in check. I create art to calm the relentless storm of living with a chronic illness. Writing, composing, singing—it all helps. It gives the swirl of thoughts something to do, turning fragments of ideas, images, and inspirations into a cohesive narrative. That process is a relief, both to my mind and my body.

But I’m also a performer. And that means I don’t just create—I promote.

I write or compose, and then yell into the void, “Look at this! Pay attention to me! Did you see it yet? Hello?”

That’s me, talking to my mom or my friends, who—let’s be honest—are kind of over it. Or, depending on their mood, really over it.

I recently asked a friend why we hadn’t been hanging out. Her answer stung: “Because you’re always inviting me to your shows.”

Ouch.

I apologized because I could see her point. Nobody wants to feel like a marketing demographic instead of a friend. But in my head, I’d genuinely thought she’d want to come. I wanted her to see the work I felt so proud of. And when she didn’t? It hurt.

(Another post for another day: evolving—or devolving—friendships.)

When you’re a performer who mostly produces your own work, self-promotion isn’t optional. It’s survival. You can’t create in a vacuum and hope someone stumbles upon your work. You have to sell what you make.

I don’t subscribe to the idea of creating purely for its own sake—not on a professional level, anyway. Art exists in the transaction: in how it moves someone, refracts their own experience back to them, and helps them see themselves in it.

To me, art must be shared.

But that doesn’t mean the art is inherently good. If no one buys, well—politely said—it’s not good enough. Try again. (Said with delightful, encouraging enthusiasm, of course.)

And I do. Every day.

Admittedly, I don’t always know when to stop sharing. That’s probably what annoyed my friend. I also don’t know when to stop creating.

I don’t have a steady “off” switch—thanks to bipolar 2 disorder. Or at least, that’s the label. The further I go, the more I wonder if I’m just uniquely wired. Still, it’s hard to argue with the patterns. My brain runs high, fast, and often too far.

Unlike others with bipolar 2, I don’t typically crash into depression. Instead, I crash into illness. My body, worn thin by the relentless drive of hypomania, eventually throws up its hands and says, Enough. The energy that fuels my creativity becomes unsustainable, and my body pays the price.

Do others get caught up in my momentum? Absolutely. But I try to be mindful. When I sense I’m on a hypomanic bend, I channel that energy toward people who can hold it with grace. Some smile and nod with a knowing, “That’s great!” Others gently say, “You’re talking fast again.” And that usually pulls me back into awareness.

It’s a delicate balance—one I don’t always get right. But over time, I’ve learned to navigate it with a little more intention.

Still, the cycle is exhausting. I create, I share, I overdo it, and then I’m sidelined by sickness, wondering why I can’t just pace myself like everyone else.

And this is where it gets sticky: the hustle of sharing becomes a feedback loop. Am I creating to share, or am I sharing to prove I’m still creating? And at what cost?

It must be shared. But it’s also… depressing? Is “soul-sucking” too dramatic?

Nothing kills the creative spark like having to package it for public consumption. It’s like making a beautiful meal and immediately begging people to eat it while nervously wondering if it’s under-seasoned—or worse, if anyone even noticed you made it at all.

I’m not cut out for hustle culture. Plenty works against me:

• My age, creeping toward 49, which in the world of “emerging artists” feels like ancient history.

• I’m a mom, so my time is never really my own.

• I’m sick a lot and have to work in weird bursts, pacing myself just enough to not implode.

• I live in a suburban area that doesn’t exactly scream “artist haven.”

And I don’t want to live in an “artist” community. I’m past the point of packing up my life and moving to some hip enclave where everyone’s throwing pottery and quoting Proust.

I like my suburban bougie mom life.

I like walking my dog to the coffee shop in my sensible vest.

You don’t have to live in a loft in Brooklyn to be creative. You don’t have to be 25 and unattached, cranking out work at 2 a.m. in a haze of genius and cheap wine.

You just have to make the work.

And then (ugh) sell it.

And then probably not sell it very well. And, welp… keep making it anyway.

For years, I’ve been haunted by the siren song of the internet. The dream of going viral. The fantasy of an online product that gets seen.

Me seen.

ME SEEN.

What a trap.

A trap I fall for again and again.

I’m working on slowing down. Creating with specificity and purpose. Iterating on something over and over until it feels ready (ish) for its first edition. And then I launch that first edition, because otherwise, the work shrivels up and lodges itself in a nook of my brain, turning into resentment—which, you guessed it, usually morphs into illness.

The work of creating is always a push and pull between your ego and your soul.

And somehow, in that tension, life mirrors art. Both are messy, exhausting, exhilarating—and worth it.