What it Feels Like to be a Ghost
I think about ghosts a lot.
Recently, I’ve been attempting to work on a video game. While still in the writing / plotting phase, I purchased the programming software in order to motivate myself forward; why spend the money if I’m not going to do the thing, right? And I’m proud of my game idea: designed to be a role-playing game, the central story-driven concept is that you choose 2 seemingly unconnected characters to join the lead from a large, weird menagerie and see what happens, creating different endings based on varying character combinations. I’m essentially trying to craft a game with enough diverse and disconnected options to promote high replay value via a thought-provoking journey on how we relate to others and how that impacts our lives — and my hope is that by crafting memorable second tier characters and having them interact with one another in very unique but also very different ways, it will encourage that replay ability.
But from the beginning of the project, the concept of having the option to use a ghost as a playable character has been something I’ve really wanted to explore more than any of the other characters I’ve scribbled down notes for. And when I say ghost, I mean a stereotypical ghost: white sheet, big blank eyes, floats about, maybe says “oooo,” et al. I’ve written ideas for 11 playable characters so far, including the lead, and while everything in this project is very much in its infancy (including but not limited to the fact I need to learn how to program a game), the thing I keep coming back to right now the most is this unnamed ghost. At some point the idea of this floating sheet with eye holes that you could use in the game got stuck in my head; I’ve been mulling it over trying to define it properly ever since.
Why?
Well, from a 50,000 foot view, ghosts are fascinating as a storytelling device. Usually a stand-in or a metaphor, the ghost as a character or figure in a story often represents loss, a lingering presence caused by the absence of something else, which is usually a result of a few common things: the loss of a person, loss of a feeling, generally just the loss of something important. Whether we’re looking at the ghost archetype from its use in fiction, games, lyrics, films, or elsewhere, “being a ghost” has a fairly clear definition in terms of how this spirit is to be used.
But what it means to be a ghost is different, something potentially more compelling — because at the heart of it, the real question isn’t what is the ghost, but rather why is there a ghost? What caused this remnant of a person, idea, or thing to come into existence, transforming from whatever it once was into a physical representation of loss contained within empty space, left behind by something unfinished? Why is it still here? Why won’t it go away? Or, perhaps, what will cause it to go away? Should it go away?
And when I think about what I can do with a ghost character in the context of the game, especially a game that’s about differences in interaction and how characters relate to one another, I’m left with so many questions I’m excited to answer. Who was the ghost? Is it a spooky ghost, or a friendly ghost? What is the backstory that caused this ghost to spawn into existence, and in what way (if any) does this impact the lead character? How does the ghost relate to the player and the other characters? Can it relate? Should it?
Or even more importantly: if you learn who the ghost is and why they’re a ghost, what ramifications does this have in not only how you understand the way you are playing the game and how you interact with this character, but how you as a player view the entire experience of playing the game?
With that in mind, I want to take some time to talk through where I am with my notes for the ghost. For the sake of this piece, we will call it Alex; not a final name for the ghost by any means, but a gender neutral one and a starting point.
So, OK, let’s start with some undeniable facts about what ghosts are. As I said, I think the most common explanation is simply “a thing left behind due to something unresolved,” but I want to focus on three similarly common, core elements through which to talk about this ghost:
- A quiet, background force that can potentially impact but often can not change — either themselves, or their environment
- A silent observer whose presence goes by unnoticed most of the time; a figure eternally in the background
- A fading memory that becomes weaker with time; something that, the more distance introduced, the more meaningless and detached from reality it becomes
When it comes to Alex, its role as a secondary character makes a lot of sense within the first presented idea. Alex is not the lead figure of the story, so Alex exists purely to influence; too much power to directly change anything beyond what is relevant in the game concept seems counter-intuitive. And since Alex is not the lead, we can make a lot of assumptions about the way in which Alex impacts, or should impact — perhaps in small suggestions, minor side quests, certain direct or succinct points of dialogue, feedback or advice to the lead character. Alex seems like a figure that needs to understand that there is a bigger world around them, and (hopefully) does.
While Alex may not be the one to come forthright and enact great change, can we then also assume that this is seemingly Alex’s lot in life? After all, Alex is designed not as a lead, but a secondary character — which means when it comes to understanding Alex’s motivations, we have to assume and invent a lot of narrative. So perhaps maybe at one point Alex tried to be the lead character in its own story and failed; once, twice, maybe multiple times. Maybe this continued failure is at least part of why Alex is stuck in an ethereal start, stuck as a ghost unable to take ownership of its place in the center of a narrative, and while we can assume that Alex has a story (as one of the potential characters in your party, Alex by default needs to have some agency, backstory and motivation), in this current context Alex likely fears they will never reach a higher potential — because Alex can’t.
That’s fascinating to me: an assumed identity as a background character based on repeat failure, repeat loss. If that is in fact the case, I think that when we see what Alex does the assumption that Alex does not change will likely come from a place of players assuming it is Alex willingly choosing not to. I can see the lead character now, telling Alex to stop doing something or assuming that Alex won’t stop a certain action or repetitive characteristic because of something akin to stubbornness. Yet, I’m stating that we can intrinsically know the opposite, that Alex can’t stop, because this is how we are defining Alex’s existence as a ghost. It’s not that Alex won’t change, but something innate is stopping Alex from changing — so Alex can not change. There is a lot of potentially interesting drama (and dramatic irony) in that.
Alex as an observer is also an intriguing concept for the character, especially when we consider that Alex as a playable character is ostensibly designed for interaction, not observation. I like to think that Alex can comfortably see everything happening around them, especially as it pertains to the bigger story being told, even if they themselves feel or are seemingly powerless to change anything — and not even specifically in the context of Alex seeing the meta-narrative, though that’s assuredly a viable avenue. In fact, maybe that is Alex’s character arc; as something ethereal, something that can move between varied states in the reality of the narrative, a character like Alex seems able to appreciate and approach the larger functions of the game from a more holistic perspective: seeing how all the pieces fit, helping to shape and influence surroundings… again not directly intervening or manipulating this from any kind of Machiavellian capacity, but just having that general sense of awareness to the landscape they are in that no one else can provide. Maybe that’s why you as a player need Alex: to find some secret meta-truth hidden underneath the larger story, because that’s what Alex can do best.
I think there’s comfort in that, but I imagine that also terrifies Alex and makes them fairly uncomfortable, especially given that we’ve already identified that Alex exists in the background. Imagine, for example, watching a figurative car crash and being unable to stop it; what does that do to Alex? Imagine the doubt and acceptance that comes with this understanding. For Alex to make any kind of decision it must be agonizing, a trial unto itself, and that means that the way in which I write Alex is infinitely more complex than any of the characters that have clear and understandable motivations and drive. A character driven by revenge is easy, and a character trying to save the world is as well; the same can not be said for an ostensibly nihilistic character struggling with the futility of its own existence.
Through this, I can see Alex’s place in a larger group clearly. Where Alex is, what Alex does, and how Alex fits into the bigger narrative actually makes a lot of sense; if you have a larger group of more outward personalities (including but not limited to an archetypal braggadocios superhero figure, an intelligent and calculating spellcaster, and an assassin robot with conscious thought) placing a quieter figure like Alex into the dynamic is not that hard; introverts exist, that’s not fictional. Alex isn’t fighting to be heard or seen in the same way as the other characters, and how it would relate (or, really, struggle to) with the motivations and intrinsic values of the rest of the cast isn’t tough to grasp.
Instead, it is ultimately what’s going on inside Alex’s mind that is tough to figure out. This brings us to the third element of my list, where things about Alex become harder to talk about.
One cycle of thought I spend a fair amount of time in is in regards to concepts of memory and legacy, and what those mean as it pertains to identity. How does not just who I think I am define me, but how will what I am doing and what I have done ultimately define who I am? How do I outlive myself, and who do I become when I am no longer telling my story? Sometimes I hear it more commonly thrown around as “perception” or “personal brand”, but it’s a tough idea to grapple with, an existential pit. It’s a conceptual rabbit hole of exploration, wondering or being concerned with how those around you see and perceive you: it’s something that impacts your relationships and how you engage with others; it informs your ability to pursue different lives or careers; it is an identity you have no choice but to assume but don’t necessarily get to define — something admittedly exacerbated in the digital age of 2017.
But that’s being human. Right? We are talking about a ghost, and this takes us a level deeper.
There’s a philosophical thought (I think from Sartre, but I’m honestly unsure and struggling with my Google searching abilities) that talks about how things only matter in our scope of reality when we are engaged with them. There are billions of people on this planet, but the only ones that “exist” are the ones that are part of your life, your reality. Easy enough to understand, but difficult to think about; if someone is no longer a part of your life, what happens to them? They don’t suddenly cease to have existed or cease to exist — but in a sense, don’t they? How does their story continue when you are no longer connected to it, when you aren’t actively trying to comprehend it and associate meaning to it? Perception supposedly is reality, after all; who do we leave behind to become ghosts, and what does it mean when we create those ghosts?
Or are we the ghosts? How does this function happen in reverse? When someone leaves us, we know we don’t suddenly cease to exist — and yet, in a manner of sense, we do to them. Sometimes it’s positive and people grow apart; sometimes it’s negative and there’s a falling out; the phrase “you’re dead to me” gets thrown around non-literally, but in a sense what else are you doing when you choose to cut someone out of your life but giving them a newly defined state of existence?
In the end all we leave behind are memories, and memories fade. Billions of years from now in the inevitable heat death of the universe everything ceases to exists. What we have until then are stories, and stories can live on if told — but how does a story continue or survive when no one tells it?
Simple: it doesn’t.
When it comes to Alex, consider this: Alex is a secondary character, one that literally doesn’t matter if you don’t choose to engage with it directly. Alex is a ghost in two different states, one by definition and one caused by you ignoring it. And, given that I want people to play the game multiple times and given that there are currently 9 other secondary characters, Alex as a character is someone that you can ignore for over 70 different playthroughs of the game. I care very much about Alex, but the odds are against them in terms of anyone else ever caring about who they are, their story, and their impact. So Alex’s survival depends not on hit points or strategy, but engagement — and I honestly have no pun intended when I say that’s haunting me.
So I have to begin asking difficult questions about Alex, like: does Alex’s existence even matter? Is Alex worth creating? If Alex is worth creating, and worth existing, then who cares about Alex? And how does Alex comprehend that? If anyone claimed they cared about Alex, would Alex believe them? Or, not for nothing, what if no one remembers or cares about Alex beyond the portion of time that Alex is directly involved with them, and after that it’s null and void; is Alex’s existence then worthwhile?
In searching for truth in character, I ask: does Alex exist?
The answer, I’ve decided, is that Alex exists if others acknowledge and remember that Alex exists.
So then I must ask: who will remember Alex?
Who remembers me?
When I was younger, the term for people like me was “wallflower.” I wish I still was a wallflower; a flower on a wall seems like something that has the potential to grow, blossom and bloom. I think I’m too old for that. Now I feel more and more like a ghost.
The nature of being an introvert, especially one that struggles with anxiety and depression, means that the way I engage with the world around me is inconsistent on a good day. There are days where it’s easy for me to get out of bed, hop on the bus and be around people; there are days where it’s beyond my ability to describe, let alone successfully do. But I don’t have the luxury to just not exist, or phase outward into some meta-narrative, so I find myself in a complicit middle ground: floating from space to space, watching, observing, and yet still feeling as though I am slowly fading away from everything I pass. As a ghost, more often than not I watch quietly, see the world turning and life moving forward.
Compounding this is that not only do I struggle being an active member of a larger community, I also find it difficult to engage and maintain more than an incredibly small handful of meaningful relationships — and the few I am able to sustain tend to be best described by me as fragile. Perhaps I overthink it (how many words are we at so far in this essay?), or perhaps I don’t think about it enough; either way there’s something I don’t appear to get or understand about how to be a “good” or even “normal” friend, or even something akin to a solid collaborator or relatable acquaintance. It hit me hard over the last year, attending weddings and seeing bridesmaids and best men telling childhood stories about the bride and groom, and knowing that I don’t have any friends from childhood. Or grade school. Or high school. Or college. Or my last three major places of employment. Or my bands. Or… or…
This is something that I’ve always struggled with, but the fact that my life is seemingly made up of rotating groups of friends based on where I happen to be is starting to wear on me — because at this point I keep asking, why is it so difficult for me to remain a part of other people’s lives? What do I keep doing, and how do I stop or change? Can I?
A part of this is that the most common way through which those around me connect is through social media, something I’ve actively disengaged myself from. I have accounts on just about everything, but I don’t participate anymore; my usernames and profiles exist more as digital tombstones, validation that I existed for others to see rather than a means through which to relate. Unfortunately I’ve found that the way social media trains your brain to seek validation is incredibly toxic for me, and that my pre-established fears of abandonment are exacerbated when met with the cacophony of silence that can arrive after putting yourself out there through digital channels (why am I writing this again?) — yet the more I fade out of people’s lives through lack of basic digital engagement, the worse I feel about having those accounts in the first place. If I didn’t have the account in the first place, I tell myself, then I might at least have an excuse, right?
This isn’t just playing out online, though. It also happens due to space and proximity. Sure, those who move farther away from you physically tend to move farther away from you emotionally as well, but I seem to lack the ability to sustain friendships even when small changes occur. I can recognize that I have a hard time investing in friendships as I clearly have a hard enough time investing in taking care of myself, but the turnover in my life is becoming alarming. In the end, what I see is people I used to know changing and growing, improving their lives through one means or another — but the absurd lens through which I often process or comprehend this is by seeing their lives improve without my involvement (or, more toxically, because of).
And of course things tend to compound from there. I have a terribly hard time being honest about how I feel now with most people, not because honesty is a weakness but rather because honesty leads to attachment which leads to detachment and disappointment. I fear what will happen if I open up to others, because the definition of insanity is doing something multiple times and expecting different results — and I know what’s going to happen. My fiancé sometimes asks why I hate something like my birthday, even though the event that first caused my distaste of it happened over a decade ago in 2006, but some things are hard to unlearn or try again. So now it’s almost a routine that when someone asks me if I’m okay I immediately respond “almost never” without thinking about it; it’s admittedly a question I am rarely asked (and believe me, at this point I get why), but it’s quick and doesn’t seem to provoke a lot of follow-up.
None of this is meant as an excuse, although I recognize it can read as such. As you can see, I’m at least self-aware of the pattern. In fact, once I saw everything playing out in slow motion and tried to stop it from happening, back in 2008 (if I recall correctly). I had just made a big life change, changing housing at school to escape from a relatively pernicious environment (physical and mental) and just doing my best to “be normal”. I could see that a close friend who mattered very much to my sustained sanity and I were drifting apart. I flailed, I fought, I put a lot of energy into this not happening and even sent a long email plea for maintained connection— but time, distance, and other people ultimately made the decision for me. We talked on the phone one last time, and have never spoken since. I once thought about trying to find them on Facebook and sending a message to see how they’re doing now; if you’ve read this far, you probably already know I didn’t.
In the end I just felt alone and defeated, somehow worse off than when I had started. I had already gone through one really difficult life adjustment, and now I had no one to talk to, no one to help. Here was someone who had been a big part of me gaining a sense of stability and comfort, someone who had talked me through a transition and helped me regain my sense of self and identity, who now would not pick up my phone calls. But it wasn’t their fault; it was mine, because they wanted to keep growing — and I just wanted to wake up and get out of bed successfully. Who else was I supposed to be mad at?
Now, nearly a decade later? Now… I just let these things happen. I don’t know what else to do other than to make sarcastic and self-deprecating remarks about my lack of worth, and there are a small few who stick by me and let me know I’m okay. When you spend so long living with a voice in your head that tells you the same thing over and over, you come to accept it and make peace with it being there; the entire exercise of trying to combat the cycle is emotionally exhausting. Besides, if I already know almost everyone I get close to will leave or go away, then what’s the point in opening up and letting new people in? How many more people do I have to lose before saying, “oh, now I get it!”
What does any of it matter?
And thus, my hypocritical mental loop becomes clear. You are all welcome to join me in trying to answer the question at the heart of all of this: existential crises on death aside (that I’ll save for another essay), is my fear born out of some form of innate nihilism or is it nascent narcissism? This is, without a shadow of a doubt, something I do to myself. Repeatedly. How can I proclaim to not care about anything, and yet care so deeply about being seen and valued? I don’t know. The mockery of it all drives me up the wall, and by now if it’s not clear how much time I’ve spent worrying about this or over-analyzing it, even letting it over-define how I let myself interact with others, then I don’t know how else to explain or over-write this any further. These 4,000-whatever words is the most honest I’ve been about any of this outside of one person, including my therapist, my family, or — well, you get the picture.
But…
There are these lyrics that I’m quite fond of, from the song “Mara and Me” by Say Anything. It comes at such a key point in the song: the song itself begins with these bombastic guitars followed by light-hearted keyboard playing, coupled with sarcastic lyrics about the Kings of Leon and self-deprecating remarks — but then all the music drops out, and lead singer Max Bemis simply states “Wait a second. I can’t write the same damn song over and over again.”
The music kicks back in, almost as if it were a completely different song, and he sings:
I can’t define myself through irony and self deprecation
I can’t deny myself being alive through my alienation
I write this piece with no solution in mind, no happy ending. This isn’t a “how I solved the one big problem holding my life back” article where I share a lesson learned; I don’t have any answers. No, writing this is about coming to terms with a part of myself and trying to be more open (and therefore accountable) about it — especially since it is an aspect of my identity that I hold tightly to myself and then struggle to control because of how much power I allow it to have as something undefined and thus kinda sorta there. Not having this be a governing principle in my life is something I’m still learning to deal with.
I also think it’s worth noting that I’ve been trying to write this piece, or something like it, for almost a year now. I first sat down to write a post like this, with a different title and a different approach, back in October of 2016. I gave up because I struggled immensely to accurately explain how I view the world around me, to give words and definition to my existential pit; since my depression, anxiety and abandonment issues are born out of a circular philosophical dilemma, it’s become a challenge to explain everything that spills out of that with words that form shareable, cohesive sentences. Or at least something that most people would easily take the time to read, anyway.
But writing has value to me. Or, well, it used to anyway. When I was younger, it was almost all I did; I wrote short stories all through high school, a novel in college, and I ran a website / blog for six years. Writing used to be a big part of who I was, how I processed, where I took things out of my head and ultimately found comfort and clarity. I used to create, not for others but for myself.
I can remember when I stopped. I can remember why I stopped. I wish I could get back into the habit, but things have been weighing me down and holding me back. Writer’s block, with a side of fries.
And as I write this, there are certainly parts where I can see my critics (and inner monologue) responding, “hey, isn’t the answer to your problem easy enough? Just do the things you don’t, write more or get on Facebook.” A fair conceit assuredly, but then again it feels like the equivalent of saying, “hey, can’t you just run a 5K? Put on your shoes and get to steppin’.”
No. You go to the gym, you train, you practice, and when you’re ready — you run.
So maybe if I can sit down and write something and get these thoughts out of my head, then maybe I can stop living with them alone, stop letting them drive and define my internal monologue, and hopefully that can impact me externally too.
And maybe if I can sit down and write this piece then I can get back to writing about the things I like to write. I’ll be able to write my game, finish a novel (like the stereotypical young tortured artist I am, gosh). Maybe I’ll be do something in journalism again, start a new band, or maybe I’ll finally figure out how to get back to work on Detective Space Cat.
So if you’re reading this sentence right now, that means I finally, finally built up the courage and fucking pushed “Publish” on this damn thing.
Am I ok? Almost never.
But this? This is me, first day back at the gym. I’m trying.
