I began writing about this some months back. It came to the forefront of my mind again recently, but from a personal angle, so I’m going to blend my tangent tangle; why the hell not? An attempt to de-compartmentalise the thoughts. Oh, the anarchy! My mind will not enjoy this. It’s a tangent—potentially incoherent at times. Just go with me on it.

Psychologically speaking, compartmentalising is a defence mechanism—an isolating process within the mind of thoughts and feelings that may conflict–this can have benefits, of course. It can help us focus on a task without being distracted. Given the nature of defence, I wonder if it’s beneficial that we are raised to compartmentalise how we are educated. As a home-educating parent, I’ve often considered this. In nature, for most, applying this to every aspect of life is stressful and unfulfilling and can make us appear inauthentic. I often worry about what parts to share, with whom and when. We naturally show different parts of ourselves to different audiences to suit boundaries and comfort levels. There’s a difference between natural compartmentalisation that protects us and the hyper compartmentalisation that seems so prevalent today. Have we all gone a little too far?

I think of the neurodivergent kid who masks all day while in a childcare or school environment and then has a meltdown at home, or the smiling and helpful cashier who spends his day helping and being patient with trying and rude customers but returns home exhausted, moody, and craving solitude from the hustle and bustle. 

In business, there’s little expectation for the heads of large organisations to share extracts of their personal selves and private lives with their customer base. I’ve never heard anyone ponder how interactive and personable James Daunt (Managing Director of Waterstones) or Roger White (CEO of AG Barr) are with his customers, for example. Few customers consider how these guys ‘made them feel’ or how personally engaged they are on social media before buying books from Waterstones or picking up a bottle of Irn Bru. It’s predominantly about the products and not the folks behind them. This doesn’t apply to independent businesses such as authors and artists like myself, who maintain complete creative and distribution control of their work. Yet, as an independent, I read and hear about this often. How folks must ‘buy in’ to the artist, and we must tirelessly engage—not too much or too little, just the right (arbitrary) amount to be ‘seen’ and be personable. In the online compartment, I’ve seen folks complain that authors only post about their work and their books, then, on the flip side, they share too much of their personal lives. There’s no pleasing everyone, even for people-pleasers, an epidemic primarily associated with women. Sadly, it is a piece of conditioning I am struggling to break free of, though I am trying! Even if not for myself, as an example to my younglings.

Again, this compartmentalisation, at its root, is a defensive process. One that can help separate and protect business from personal and facts from fiction. 

Personal compartmentalisation, on the other hand, isn’t as clear-cut either. In fact, for some of us, that’s even more of murky situation. When is it too much? When is it not enough? It’s now undeniable to me the more I’ve considered it that how I manage my personal relationships in this manner is a defensive and trauma response. I was raised to hide pieces of myself, from how I smiled to the questions I’d ask, so like the people pleaser, the hyper compartmentaliser was also created. Don’t let them see you, Natasha. Don’t let anyone see all of you because you’re a fucking mess. Your teeth are crooked, your accent isn’t right, your questions make everyone uncomfortable. Just stay quiet, and keep your mouth closed. But that’s not unique to me; I’m not special in any way, so many of us have this — our friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances only see us from certain angles. A version just for you and them. And with this, I’ve always kept my social relationships pretty separate. I don’t mix family and friends or different friend groups. The idea of such social mixing sends me into an anxiety-ridden shambles envisioning the horror. There’s experience to support the separations—I mixed groups a bit in my youth, and lessons were learned, so the defences were erected in full force, and I haven’t thought about allowing passages between rooms in a couple of decades.

In recent months, I began considering my history with social compartmentalism when one of my closest friends noted I had uncharacteristically opened a door between rooms. She has perhaps been exposed to more of me than anyone else in my life, so her observation hit hard. In creating this invitation, which was uncharacteristically not thought out, it was strangely natural in contrast to my defensive conditioning. I’m here today overthinking or just thinking about how I may have created a draft. Shut the door, Natasha! The open door, even if the invited never passes through, is akin to an open wound. Have I thoughtlessly regressed or is it a progressive change of self? A seasonal shift that has to happen for a growth I’m yet to understand? I don’t know. It’s getting cold in here. Maybe I should close the door.