Success; I was just HURT, and TRAUMATISED... disgusted
Issue 004, check it out in its entirety here
Would I ever make Forbes '30 under 30' to watch, or would I be destined to a life of mediocrity, only achieving success aged 31?
Once upon an attempt to make something of myself, I wrote about the dangers of social media and its roundabout way of making us feel as though we're not doing enough.
Despite my adoration for SM; the compliments I receive on my weekly Tik Tok selection and the access to Rihanna - which, if we’re being honest is the main reason I always return to Instagram - we cannot deny its toxicity. With the influx of outfit compliments come the 100s of private DM shares and gossip about whether or not you own said item photographed. But my biggest qualm with the online world is its constant flurry of good news, cobbled with age brackets and time frames.
I’m only 27 - cue the “27, fuck I’m old,” line from SATC - but I often feel tremendously unaccomplished when I log into my social media accounts. My insecurity leads me to believe I should’ve been working while I slept to ensure I could afford a home aged 22, and herein lies my unhealthy attachment to age + announcements online. Sure, I may be ecstatic for people and their wins, that’s imperative, but it’s the “[insert incredible achievement] at [insert age, I could have never achieved this incredible achievement at]!” for me. Horrible as it makes me sound, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve wasted my formative years flirting with men out of my league, slut dropping at clubs with sticky floors, and breaking the weekend record for the highest number of tequila shots consumed, after a day spent on the retail shop floor. In short, “it wasn’t y’all though I could’ve been doing more… I was just HURT… and TRAUMATISED… disgusted”.
My early twenties and late teens were fun, of that I’m certain. I spent my carefree years more consumed by which spirit could get us the drunkest, as opposed to picking out colour pallets for my future guest bedroom. All too often I wonder what life might’ve been like had I spent ages 16-21, and my discounted Oyster card days, studying a little harder, forcing myself into spaces that made me anxious and, I guess working even earlier than I already did to ensure I had a roof of my own, over my head.
At 21 and having just graduated from University, I was terrified that the world would immediately forget that I actually had a degree, and so panicked myself into getting a shitty desk job. Shitty, because while I spent my Mondays to Fridays in a cold, desolate and grey environment, my recent-graduate pals were out day drinking in Shoreditch and sending crude messages along the lines of, “lol you stupid bitch come meet us!”. In short, because the long version is in my book (lol), I wasn’t fortunate enough to know what I wanted to do with my life post-graduation. Or rather, knew what I wanted but had no idea how to attain those goals.
In my longing to be on an exclusive '30 under 30’ list to celebrate the little wins, I feel tremendous pressure from those elicit online announcements, and an anxious fire under my ass. Only in this scenario, I’m like that of a roasted pig with an apple wedged in its mouth and it's the Twitter elite that is roasting my ass.
I guess it’s sort of natural to envy those who have their lives together at 21? And not at all bitter like that of Princess Anne in The Crown. Woe is me and all that, but it’s very trash and a detriment to my brand of nonchalance that I’m so affected by the age portion of an announcement, but I am and I understand a number of twenty-somethings struggle with the same sentiment. Sort of like those aunts and uncles who preface every statement at your behaviour with, "well when I was your age," dear God… am I there now!?
While there is no real logic to this piece, I think it’s clear that looking 30 in the face is making a few of us wobble at the mere thought of not being ‘successful enough,’ before reaching that milestone. Despite having many things to be proud of, we're a little too cruel when listing the wins; I too am guilty and ion like det.
To conclude; we're all going to be somebody(s), it might take an awful lot longer to get there, but rest assured, we’ll get there.
Relationships, relationshit, relation-wit - I couldn't help but wonder, would I ever settle on finding a direction for this question?
A wise woman once told me that settling in your twenties is silly; because it meant sacrificing the years where you could stretch your back without it clicking, would be wasted on men who didn’t meet your needs like your favourite vibrator.
That woman was wise indeed, and though I completely cocked up my mother's analogy with my crude take, she raised a very valid point. Often we’re led to believe that we cannot do any better to move on from dying relationships because of ‘the fear’. Perhaps it’s because starting over means having to recite your funniest anecdote over and over to new suitors or because feelings (whatever those are lol) linger, leading you to carry out the necessary healing processes before Slitherin under a new mate. I dunno. Whatever the reason, we settle and we needn’t do so.
My ‘ghosts of dating past’ rely heavily on the fact that I don’t always feel - Hot Girls strike me down - “good enough,” while dating someone who doesn’t necessarily meet my quota. The partner checklist if you will. When pair-bonded with someone of the opposite sex, who doesn’t match up to very little expectations, I end up whittling myself down to a microscopic version of myself. Completely reshaping my neuroses so as not to cause disruption or distress. Oh my God, I’m Carrie Bradshaw.
~I need a brief moment to digest this devastating news~
Artwork by @canihavethisplease
Unfortunately, I’m unable to escape the ‘Hetero Ghetto,’ as Tanya Compas so eloquently puts it; which means I’m often backed into the corner of, “welp, this is just men”. And sorry, but that is disgusTENG, unacceptable and unequivocally not okay. But the fear of being alone doesn’t terrify me, in fact, it excites me. A million years ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I had a boyfriend - so literal light years ago - I spoke in-depth about my daddy issues and how they led me to believe I’d someday live alone, with a pup and in my own mortgaged apartment. That is still true of my values today and the idea that I get to be unapologetically me for the rest of my life is something I look forward to.
That said, I’m sure someone’s son will soon threaten my womb with the six words that get every girl's panties wet, “I’m gonna get you pregnant uno,” and I’ll end up with Kenneth’s son attached to my hip in no time.
For too long we've been threatened with 'loneliness' in a bid to keep us in relationships that do nothing for us, but there's been a shift. The harsh single critique from our parents, aunts and uncles don't send pins coursing through our bodies anymore and we've strayed from traditional family households. Which if I'm being honest was always the case for me, having grown up in a "broken" home.
I feel as though we're no longer scared to be alone because more often than not, it's for the best. With our "secret single behaviour" in tow and free to be out in the open, we can routinely apply 'post-breakup glow' oil each night, to remind us that there's no shame in putting yourself first, and always. Because truth be told, you always glow your best when you do.
*Kenneth is, of course, fictional and those words do it for no women, please stop saying it. Please.*
Rounding off the issue with this month’s #ThingsIDontMeme, which is pretty self-explanatory. Naomi Campbell said it best when she screamed this paraphrased quote at fellow "model," on The Face and I felt that. Deep.
It is with style and grace, that I depart from you... until next time tweeps. I literally have no witty outro this time, soz.
Love, L x