Or you could do it like you, figure out how this works for you, and kill the hell out of it. You’ve got what it takes. You will never be the only person trying to do this, but you will be the only person able to do whatever the hell that is you’re doing like you.
It’s 2:45 A.M and you’re up playing Sherlock. Someone has posted a series of emotional statuses in the past hour, and well when you can’t sleep at 2:45AM and you’re the owner of a vivid and wild imagination, you choose to let the thoughts roam free. You begin to piece together the statuses to form a probably-not-so true story glued together with assumptions and conclusions, and before you know it, 3:26AM has met you in the same center spot of your bed and you are still wide-eyed.
Welcome to the fuckery of Facebook after dark.
It’s now 3:32 AM. Cue the soundtrack for “Self-hating In The AM,” you’ve now moved onto Instagram.
Scroll. Double tap. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Double Tap. Screen Shot. Scroll. Zoom in. Accidentally double tap. Frantically undo the double tap. Scroll some more.
That feeling is beginning to settle in. You know. That same feeling you got when you ended up on her page the last time. It starts off with the questions:
She’s so perfect. Is that a wig?
Who is taking her pictures for her?
How in the hell is she traveling so much?
Why are her eyebrows so on point?
She’s too pretty to be single.Wait, is she single?
Followed by the plan:
You are going to the gym today.
You’re not leaving till you’ve burned 600 calories.
And you’re no longer eating bread. Or sugar. Just air
After work you’re going to grocery shop,
And then you’re going to go home and figure out your motherfucking life.
This all stops abruptly with you throwing your phone. Not because it’s time to sleep, but because now, all of a sudden, you are unsatisfied with your life. Because now all of a sudden, you want hers.
You want the pretty pictures, the well put together outfits, and the Colgate smiles. You covet her cool day job, the amazing opportunities she tweets about, and her effortless popularity. You’ll ask the universe why you can’t just be skinny and not have to slave for it every day through excessive workouts and meals sectioned out into 6 containers. And then you’ll berate yourself some more, because there just has to be something that’s wrong with you as to why you can’t own a picture-perfect living either.
After a few days of self-battering, you’ll sign off of all of your social media accounts. Instagram deactivated. Twitter muted. Facebook silenced. You’re going into recovery mode. You’ve triggered a side of you you’ve clawed yourself away from years ago. A side that thrives off of negativity and self-deprecation, and you and your therapist know no good can ever come from that. Affirmations will be written, journals will be spoken to, and the process of remembering your self-worth will kick in. You’ll be upset with yourself for letting 140 characters push you into this hole, but you’ll remember to treat yourself with self-compassion and care at this delicate time. Again, this is recovery mode.
Because eventually you’ll get tired of the self-battering. And eventually you will grow exhausted with the mental capacity used to store images of a life that is not your own. Eventually you will be forced to look at your own life, and do more than “make do” with it. You’ll come to terms with its own blessings and punchlines, and realize that there is beauty in your life. You know, the life you’ve created and the life the universe is working with you to gain. And right at that time, you’ll appreciate its messiness. You’ll appreciate its untimely gifts, and heart-wrenching fuck ups. And that’s when you’ll decide that you do not want her life, and that you never really did to begin with. You want yours, and all the lumps and bumps that come with it, because there is absolutely nothing else like it.
Instagram reactivated. Twitter unmuted. Facebook resumed.