Naked and Free: Why are you so afraid of sexually liberated women?

It’s the oldest story in the book, and I’m about sick of bloody telling it. Man sees women’s body, sexualises it, fine. Women has women’s body, sexualises it, not fine. The male gaze is a theory developed many years ago by Laura Mulvey and its core beliefs are still present to this day; simply put this is the concept in which women are represented and presented as mere sex objects for the pleasure of- and by – the heterosexual male viewer/audience. From film, tv, magazines and adverts- (my fave thing ever is the spoof ad by Women’s suit company ‘Suistudio‘ which depicts women in suits with naked men, directly touching upon the representation of women as naked objects in fashion ads) a women and her body has often been used to sell products and garner attention. Sex sells we are so often told. But what happens when the power balance flips and the women decide to take control of their sexuality; freely and openly objectifying themselves and using their body for financial gain? Well, they’re all tramps of course.

Little Mix “Strip” Artwork

Last week saw Piers- I will say anything controversial to please Daily Mail readers – Morgan take an un-necessary and uncalled for (like all of his opinions) swipe at girl band Little Mix for posing naked- bar insults they’ve received scribbled all over their bodies- to highlight body-shaming issues in society (oh the irony of his anger towards this specific campaign) and to promote their new single “Strip”; a song which encourages women to embrace and love their bodies with the lyrics “Finally love me naked, I’m sexiest when I’m confident”. Piers shared that “young female pop stars shouldn’t have to use nudity to sell records” claiming it was tacky and going as far as to tell one member to “put some clothes on, if she has any”…. original Piers, really original. He pretended to show concern for their young fans whilst shaming the trailblazing young women that they look up to, all in a lousy attempt to hide his misogynistic views that women’s bodies are something to be ashamed of and their sexuality damaging to young girls. In fact unbeknownst to the old Oaf, his attack only highlighted the underbelly of Little Mix’s campaign that women are constantly attacked and made to feel ashamed about their bodies. Point proven, Good one bruh. But in a World shit-scared of sexually liberated women, Little Mix aren’t the first female popstar’s to be targeted and shamed for their public display of sexuality.

For as long as my FizzTV watching, 12 year old self can remember, popstar’s like Britney Spears and Nicki Minaj have been writhing around my tv screen like the sexy, bad-ass women that they are. From crop top’s and hip slingin’ jeans to bikini’s and thongs, the women of pop have embraced their sexuality through their outfit choices and provocative dance moves, choosing to own their objectification- which would have been thrust upon them regardless -in a historically male-dominated industry, and cashed those cheque$$$$ in the process honey. But the glory years of women in pop (will we ever be gifted someone quite like Rihanna again?) have been tainted with criticism that these explorations of sensuality from ‘supposed role-models’ are damaging our gender with the ever-impending doom of being viewed as sex objects. Actress and writer Rashida Jones whipped up a controversial conversation on twitter a couple of years ago where she called out female popstar’s, asking them to reign in their sexiness and as she so politely put it- to ‘#stopbeingwhores’. Seriously? Who’s setting women back now? *huge fucking eyeroll* Other women engaged in the conversation, chipping in with opinions such as “There’s a big difference in being proud to be a woman and selling yourself” and “What ever happened to class and leaving something to the imagination?” Hey guys, the 1920’s called, they want their views back. Whilst Rashida has since shared her horror at the backlash and insisted “there is a difference between shaming and holding someone accountable”, this hypocrisy of attempting a call to arms amongst the female community by slagging off their fellow peers and labelling them derogatory sexual terms- an angle which is so often taken up by other women in the name of “Feminism” – is an attempt at ‘girl power’ I will never be able to understand.

Ironically, in comparison to everyone’s uproar of female pop artists, my first recollection of seeing semi-naked women in the media was when I loaded 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” single into my PC and a music video featuring Fiddy writhing around with topless women in a bath full of melted chocolate played on my screen. I was around thirteen at the time and I remember instantaneously ejecting the CD whilst coming to the realisation this song was not about licking actual lollipop’s at all, swiftly hiding it under a huge pile of STEPS CD’s and praying my mum never found my new found stash of soft-core music vids. I have to say, Britney Spears oiled up in a bralet and trousers, belly dancing whilst holding a snake didn”t quite have the same long term effect. If you’re searching for somewhere to direct your anger, aim it at the music industry, the executives, the agents, the consumer’s, the male rapper’s who use 50 naked girls in their music video whilst grinding with their tops off and calling them hoes. But aiming your anger towards those who are fighting similar battles as you are in society whilst attempting to break their own glass ceiling is just plain lazy, and to be honest it’s exhausted.

Oh the hypocrisy: Where’s the outcry?

In other “We hate women being sexy” news, last week saw Australian Lingerie brand Honey Birdette face backlash after releasing their Christmas campaign. Not new to criticism for using provocative images, Honey Birdette have often been targeted for their sexy campaigns and shop-window displays, with a petition calling for their ad’s to be banned labelling the pics “porn-style advertising” and “hyper-sexualised”. One big issue which separates this brand from others is that they concentrate on women’s pleasure and sexuality as their selling point. DING DING DING, there goes the women enjoying sex alarm. Best put a stop to that immediately. Women’s groups and journalists alike have attacked the brand for “giving in to sexualised images”, immediately labelling them as derogatory for women, damaging to children and giving us all a bad name. One journalist in her critique towards the brand, saw her reference the recent case in Ireland in which a young rape victim had her choice of lace underwear used against her as a sign of consent, in her argument that this women’s underwear company needs to “have a responsibility to ensure their products- and their marketing campaigns- are socially acceptable” adding how the case “shows in the minds of many men, and some women, sexy underwear equals consent” Sorry, but What The Fuck? These people are so terrified of women being sexual beings that they are claiming lingerie brands should take some form of responsibility for their products and the supposed ‘message’ they give out. The same said critic also added that the image included “a good percentage of side labia” – if the crease which joins your leg to your groin is a labia then we’ve all been walking around swimming pools with our labia’s hanging out for fucking decades. Go back to sex ed’ class love, and give yourself a fondle whilst you’re at it, you might find out you quite enjoy it.

One of the images involved in the backlash to Honey Birdette’s Campaigns

Throw in Chrissy Teigen’s tweet about teem mom star Farrah- “Farrah Abraham now thinks she’s pregnant from her sex tape. In other news you’re a whore and everyone hates you.” and it’s clear to see that women are our own worst enemy when it comes to respecting each other’s sexual prowess. Chrissy continued her twitter tirade stating “Does calling this ‘slut shaming’ make you feel better? Like pulling the bully card? Ladies: you aren’t a super feminist for okaying super whores.” Ugh, sorry Chrissy, but I just can’t stan you on this one. For one, you’re best friends with Kim Kardashian so any validity when mentioning a sex tape and being a whore is void on your behalf… and two, why do you give a shit about another woman’s sex life enough to publicly shame and embarrass her for the sake of a few retweets? SURE the Farrah tape is a little, shall we say, explicit, but can’t a woman just live out her porn-star fantasy without being labelled an above-average whore?! Whether that be on one of the World’s most popular porn site’s or after a frisky Friday night down the local, this judgement and ridiculing has got to stop.

But seriously, does it ever occur to these critics that some women like to feel sexy? That some women enjoy being sexy? That some women like to wear sexy lingerie- or nothing at all- to empower themselves rather than project themselves as sex objects for the taking? This concept of women posing for sexy photo’s is not a new phenomenon. For years photo studio’s have held make-over days where every-day women get all dolled up and indulge in a sexy photo-shoot whether it be for their man, to celebrate their bodies or simply to treat themselves to a day of pamper and a ‘feel-good’ experience in the process. People pay for that fucking shit. Because they know how good it makes them feel. How much pleasure their naughty pics will give their husband. They accept it as a fun experience. Applaud it as a body-positive move. But switch up the roles to the woman being paid to wear the lingerie, to the woman getting all the financial gain and pleasure, and it’s suddenly disturbed and wrong. The mind boggles. We as women should be embracing more ad’s with the female as the dominator, the one in control- as finally switching up the roles amongst the sexes and in the bedroom, rather than attacking them. We should be praising female celebrities for being so open and care-free with their sexuality within the media, and their acceptance of the bodies they’re in, and not publicly shame them for it.

Why are you so afraid of women being sexy? This outcry every time a women sexualises herself is the product of an intense history of a patriarchal society, which has for so long solely viewed women as sex objects for men, instead of accepting that women can be sexy and sexual for themselves. The call for women to feel ashamed of their bodies being seen in public; that women can only be sexy behind the bedroom door is what sets women back and places their sexual well-being and pleasure, along with their health, in the hands of men. Calling for women to ‘stop acting like whores’ or to ‘put some clothes on’ isn’t going to change the society we are in, or a woman’s personal sexual behaviour. And so it shouldn’t. At a time where women’s progress and equality has never been higher, our rights to the choices we make over our own bodies are still in question. The next time you disagree with a women’s sexual way, agree to disagree, accept it, and look for somewhere more important to direct your anger and energy. There are better ways to fight the patriarchy and protect our children from harm than banning women in nipple tassels and getting vibrator’s taken off supermarket shelves (this really happened). In a World full of Piers Morgan’s, be an Emily Ratajkowski. Fight the good fight.

Check out my other blog on sexism within the media here

Have a topic you’d like me to discuss? Let me know! jabberwithjess@gmail.com

“Not another mean comment”: What makes you press send?

The phrase “trolling” is one in which we’ve all become accustomed to since the rise of the 14th district we so lovingly call social media. It’s meaning has seasoned like the funk off some old cheese, tangled in a web of twitter spats and matured through countless blockings on Instagram. It is described by both Wikipedia and the Urban dictionary as an act which see’s people (dickheads) start quarrels and cause upset on the internet by posting “inflammatory and digressive, extraneous or off-topic messages” with the intent to start an argument and provoke a totes-emosh response. Or in simple terms, it’s people being dickheads. But what about when people aren’t saying mean stuff to start arguments or provoke a response? What about when people are just saying mean stuff to well, be mean?

A couple of weeks back I wrote a piece on here about my Life as a Glamour model and accepting your career is over at 25. I dived into the deepest pits of my stomach and laid myself bare for the World- or to the thousand odd people who read this blog- to see. And come thru Miss Worldwide because this led to me being contacted by a Welsh online News site who wanted to run a feature on me about my blog post and what I was up to now. Never one to seize an opportunity to talk about myself (jks my friends, I’m trying to re-brand myself here, a girl needs press) I was more than happy to oblige. Fast-forward to last week and a reporter and photographer showed up on my door. We chatted away casually whilst I overshared my life and once again laid myself bare for the World- or some of Wales – to see. I spoke openly about being a young woman struggling to find my way in life; I delved into being a proud feminist and how we should encourage women to do what they like with their bodies and I boldly discussed how upsetting online abuse and judgement from strangers can be. In fact,the exact words I poured over in the video coverage were:

“The worst bit (about my career), is you do get, you know, a lot of people judging you which people will say well you kind of expect it but it’s one of them things that when people are commenting on you as a person when they’re just strangers, it’s hard to kind of just, ignore it and you kind of take it to heart”

My feelings sprawled across this article as if I were opening up to my closest friends and I eagerly awaited my story to be shared as to find comfort in the hope that I am not the only one out there trying to find my way. But as the post went live this “worst bit” in which I had shared my fears and tried so often to ignore came flooding back in written form.

Shared online without a care in the World was judgement after judgement, comment after comment of unnecessary opinions and hurtful words. I don’t believe you should “expect” people to say mean shit to you online just because your in the public eye of some sort. The job role doesn’t come listed with a mandatory kick in the teeth for every three positive comments you might get. I am not superhuman, and as I told you time and time again in the article in which you’re barrage stemmed from, this hurts. Now, I don’t live in la-la land. Everyone has an opinion and everyone passes judgement. I get that. But what I don’t get is how having an opinion in your mind or bitching amongst your friends (we all do it, again I am not superhuman) has transformed to beholding a sense of entitlement that you can share this opinion so fucking openly online, direct with the one you’re bitching about, with apparently no conscience. Did your mum never teach you that if you haven’t got anything nice to say, then don’t say it at all? Or at least have the decency to say it behind my back? The internet has created a safe space for bullies to share their inner saboteur to the World with no consequence or compassion. If people said this kind of stuff to your face in a public place they would be called out and vilified for being a crappy person. But because these comments are made online you’re expected to take them as part and parcel of the job, or of life for that matter. It’s all part of the game. But neeeeewsflash, playing with somebodies emotions is not a game that entices most humans with a moral compass.

After having an online presence for 6+years, being on the receiving end of mean comments is nothing new to me. Whenever I discuss trolling with people, friends, journalists; I laugh it off and take it on the chin. Everyone tells me I deal with it so well. But the reality is that I don’t have much choice. If I didn’t, I’d be a shell of a person. Being judged and having your flaws pointed out to you by other women whilst the World rides the wave of Girl Power and Self-Love is a beautiful blanket of bitter-sweetness. Comments from men about my looks can relatively be tossed aside with the excuse that they’re just being jerks because they can’t get in your pants, or because they just fucking hate women 🙃. But the remarks from other females seem to cut deeper within, carving out the memories I’ve pushed to the back of my brain of girls in school scrawling my name alongside the word slut on the bathroom walls. These fellow women are all facing similar battles in life as me and yet take the time out of their day to stamp out these words on their keyboards with no other possible outcome than to make me feel shit, or to what, make them feel….better?

They’re just jealous” is a saying in which many have tried to comfort me with over the years. But I don’t believe this is ever really the case. I have scoured the internet for some “professional” explanation of trolling, some sort of psychological justification in which to prove their actions anchor from deep within. But I can’t really seem to find any. Joe Boyd, a writer for Huffington Post describes it as a “virtual road-rage“. You feel safe to say whatever you want within the comfort of the four doors which armour you, but would you really go that extra-step of getting out of the car and saying something to them in person? Some of the other reasons he gave where that it is comforting, it is free entertainment, it is power, it is boredom, and ultimately- it is natural. For unfortunately, some people just can’t help themselves from being dicks.

A comment I received on one of my blogs recently.

A few weeks ago as I was trying to relax in the the bath with a glass of red and £4.95 Lush Bath Bomb (I had planned this bath for days honey) I was interrupted by my phone and the sweet sound of a notification. I opened up my emails and was confronted by the comment above staring back at me. As I sat there alone in my flat, I honed in on this attack of my body, my personality, my feelings that I had so honestly shared with the World. I read them over and over again until, I just cried. These words had invaded my personal space and I had no option but to engage with them. I tried to salvage what was left of my relaxing bath plan- thanks a fucking lot those bath bombs aren’t cheap- and attempted to pull myself together, sending the email to my junk mail and disapproving the comment on WordPress. But as I settled back in with a much needed sip (gulp) of merlot, my phone pinged again with another infringement on my inbox and those words greeted me once more as the poster so desperately attempted to make his feelings known. This time I sent the comment straight to the trash, only for my phone to be infiltrated once more, forty-five minutes later with a third attempt at leaving the same comment about my (once) very fat tits. But now I just laughed. Your life seems great, hun. Best of luck.

All it takes is a simple scroll. A scroll in which would preserve your dignity and keep my emotions intact. But so many people choose not to scroll. Why? The internet has become a thief of reality for those who are lost and those who are lonely. Their boredom lines their hateful words which acts as a coat of arms to their inner collaborator of unhappiness. They spout about freedom of speech as if these three words give them a get-out-of-jail-free card for having the human right to comment on how your weight loss has made your tits saggy. Well guess what Karen* (insert standard ‘Can I see the manager’ name to fill this role) the Freedom of speech isn’t there so you can spend your lunch break spouting shit online to make people feel bad. I don’t know what else I can add, but it really isn’t rocket science folks. Mean comments hurt people’s feelings and there is a human being behind your screen who will carry those comments with them a lot longer than the thirty-seconds it took you to write it.

I’m going to leave you with this inspiring comment which unfortunately *cough* was not made about me but one of my friends, because trolling does not discriminate, we are all fair game to these people. I’m all of a sudden peckish for some pudding, you in?

Life as a Glamour Model: Accepting your career is over.

Accepting your career is over is something you never want to have to face, not this early on in life anyway. All the long lusted ideals of what your life will be like, the high hopes that you’ve hung your dreams upon and the promised land in which you never got to travel disappear from your eyesight. It’s over. I am no longer a model.

It’s a tough pill to swallow. Especially when you are still so in love with your craft. Of course, everyone knows that there is a time limit to this career path, no one stays young forever they say. But the problem is, I still am. Whilst a lot of things in my life felt uncertain, my career was not one of them. I knew exactly what job I wanted, and I was as determined as anyone could be for success. I fell in love with modelling, fuck I fell hard. I loved every single moment of it. From the 5am Megabus’ to London and the castings in office cupboards, to the dodgy locations (yes FRONT mag) and even dodgier styling. The good always outweighed the bad when it came to this profession, always. I knew I was never the prettiest, the tallest, the skinniest, but I was adamant that I could make up for this through my boldness and fortitude in my love affair for this role. I faced off time and time again with rejection, yet each battle played a collective part in my story, building up a beautifully tragic puzzle of euphoric dreams and delusion.

Image by Harris Nukem

Being booked for a photoshoot was my Apollo 11. I was being paid to live out my childhood fantasy. I could never quite believe my luck. Each job was a journey, navigating at different stops. The first station would be hair and make-up, boy I loved this one. I would carefully soak in the craftsmanship, absorbing as much detail as I could on how to create the perfect smokey-eye. Each time without fail my eyes would water, their glazing blue-ness too sensitive for all the poking and prodding. I would sit there apologising, all red-eyed and irritated, clenching my fists praying that the tears wouldn’t fall and ruin the masterpiece which had adorned my face. The next stop was wardrobe, which usually consisted of various items of clothing spread out on the floor. “I hope I get that one” I’d think, waiting patiently for my look to be pieced together. I very rarely got “that one”, but I didn’t mind. I observed the stylist’s moves, their precision and eye for detail. Pinning and tucking, clipping and steaming. They minded every tag and seam with such an air of responsibility. The last stop put me in front of the camera. The holy grail. This is what it all came down too, this is what it was all for. Stepping on set always set off a wave of imbalance within me, a convulsion of hysteria and a dreaded feeling of don’t fuck it up. It was always in the back of my mind that this one shoot, this one job, could get me noticed and lead to my big break. That was both utterly terrifying and wholly spine-tingling. The photographer embeds their knowledge within you; chin up, back curved, towards the light, mouth a tad open. Their ability to execute an image in their mind to a living, breathing artwork in front of them is a demonstration of pure excellence. Anyone can pick up a camera, but only these select few are artists. Stepping off-set I would feel excited and drained. What if the pictures aren’t good enough. But as always, the good outweighed the bad, and I would leave the shoot feeling as if my dopamine levels had burst out of my brain. I want to feel this happy at work forever. I wish I hadn’t taken those days for granted.

Image by Matt Comer

Your life begins to build up around this path you’ve chosen. Your best friends become girls that you model with. Your travelling buddies become the make-up artists and stylists. Your agent becomes your second mother. Your drinking companions become the photographers. You meet up outside of work just because you want too. These people know all your secrets and your stories, your desires and your ambitions. You’ve shared life-changing experiences and travelled the World alongside them. You’ve created this whole family dynamic around you, and then one day, it’s just sort of, gone.

No one really warns you when your World is about to come crashing down. It doesn’t all happen at once. Much like a cliff repeatedly battered by the ocean, it silently erodes away piece by piece until one day you look up and nothing is there. This final stage of rejection is not one that I can accept so freely. I never fell out of love with modelling, but it fell out of love with me. The glamour industry evaporated and the other sector’s turned their back. You don’t fit the bill anymore, your job does not exist. I wish I had done more. I wish I had put myself out there more instead of spending so long feeling shy and uncertain of who I was. I wish I had spoken up and shared with my colleagues how much I really loved this job, this role as their fellow companion. The one thing left behind from my modelling days are my social media followers. But unfortunately this means I have to face trolling and negative comments about my looks, whilst no longer reaping any of the benefits that come with the job. I imagine it to be much like the career of a sportsman, through injury or old age (if you can call it that!) their time abruptly stops and they’re thrown back into the deep-end to try and forge a new path. Except when you’re a model, your passage has become blocked. Companies and brands don’t want to work with ex-glamour girls, and you’re once again running against the wind, trying to catch a break.

I’ve built up a plethora of knowledge through my experiences in this industry. I can, and have executed entire projects for brands from on-set shoot management, sourcing and casting, to client liaison, styling and production (you can check out some of my work here btw). But gaging respect from others as an ex-model is still something I struggle to find. The support network does not exist whilst the judgement unfortunately does. Life sometimes feels like an uphill battle and facing that your career is over as a 25 year-old, whilst feeling like you have so much left to give, is a hard wound to heal. I wrote this blog whilst tearing up, this really was my world. To many this may seem a bit silly, but starting from the bottom when you were so close to the top is a scary thing to face. I hope that I can be the exception and break away from the mould that us ex-models are forced into and forge a career behind the camera. But until then, I’ll continue to blog about my experiences through a new series I’ll be featuring called ‘THE MODEL DIARIES.’ Keep an eye out!

My relationship with Social Media: Make up, or Break up?

I know a girl whose one goal was to visit Rome, Then she finally got to Rome, And all she did was post pictures for people at home, Cause all that mattered was impressin‘ everybody she’s known”

The power of Social media as a tool for business growth is unquestionable. But somewhere on this path I confused myself with a business and got lost along the way. See, I don’t make any money from my social media, but I happen to have a lot of followers. I’m not an influencer, but I’m expected to post “interesting” content. Of course, I’ve put that expectation on myself; putting currency into follower count is probably where it started to go wrong. I would force myself to post daily updates to stay “current”- I’m not entirely sure what I mean by this, but I just remember reading articles that said you should post at least once a day- so I did, I’d post anything. Uploading throwback after throwback of my travels, selfies of me with a full face of makeup on, and generally making my life look pretty damn great. And it is great, but not for the reasons my pages would lead you to believe.

IMG_5479

My relationship with social media grew at the same time as it’s popularity. { Just as an FYI, I use Twitter and Instagram the most, and Facebook privately. } My following grew organically thanks to S/O’s from Lads mags *RIP TittyTuesday* and I was enjoying reaching so many people on different platforms, through my new found *fame* (insert extremely big finger brackets here, I use the word fame in as loose of a term as possible). Due to my job and my environment at the time, my feed was pretty much full of scantily clad females, plus a few standard celeb accounts thrown in. You would think seeing beautiful women retweeted on my timeline constantly would have set me on my way to an early social media meltdown, but ironically, this “era” was the most comfortable I’ve ever felt online. Of course, there’s a wonderful irony in this- with the argument that glamour models are bad role models for women; but seeing the bodies of my fellow peers and strangers so freely shared on my timeline with such blasé and no editing or filters, well, it was empowering. And so fucking n o r m a l. I guess you could say these were my influencers. And I sure as hell was not worrying about how even my eyebrows looked or if my lips were plump in my selfies- and trust me, I know there is some dodgy photo’s out there to back these claims up! These platforms were a fun space where we all came together on a Wednesday afternoon to tweet #Humpday pictures, swap lighthearted comments and just have fun. I remember getting messages from up and coming brands – “Hey! We’d love to send you a tshirt in exchange for a post?”‘ FREE SHIT. This was mental. At one point I was paid £50 to upload a post holding a tub of protein powder. FIFTY QUID FOR A POST. This was the best job ever, or so I thought. Of course, now I know I was hugely undervaluing my “posting charge”, do you know how much these fuckers are being paid these days? TO POST AN INSTAGRAM PIC? It’s mind boggling. Anyway, Twitter and Instagram were an exciting place; they were fresh and they were new and I was growing with them.

I know a girl that saves pictures from places she’s flown, To post later and make it look like she still on the go, Look at the way we live”

So what went wrong? I fell down the rabbit hole. The search for validation from strangers online, constantly checking my “likes” hoping my next post will be the most popular yet. And if it didn’t do well? Fuck. That sinking feeling. The confidence I felt five minutes ago when I posted it had turned into despair. Do I look shit? Do I look fat? My boobs are saggy. Should I delete it? Maybe I’ll wait ten minutes. No I’ll just delete it, it must be shit if I’ve not hit 1000 likes. I’ll just try again and upload it later .Yes, this really was my thought process. On every post. Every day. Then came the dawn of the influencers and you might as well have pitted me next to Naomi Fucking Campbell because from now on I wasn’t as good as anyone. “Why don’t I live in a house like that?”, “Why am I not in Bali?”, “Why don’t I have abs like that? A bum like that, teeth like that”, “Why don’t I enjoy eating bowls of kale?”. The list goes on. I even started posting about my “weight loss journey”, when I was a Size 10- max.

Comparison became the thief of my happiness online.

Not only am I having to Keep up with the Jones’s- I’m trying to keep up with the whole World. Which of course, you can’t. Fuck, these girls can’t even keep up with themselves. I put so much value into the opinions of strangers, that I stopped taking notice of how social media was making me feel. I felt like I couldn’t share the everyday parts of my life, the parts that made me, me- because they weren’t exciting enough, or glamorous enough, or worthy enough. This might all sound a little excessive, but I truly don’t think I’m alone in thinking like this.

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My “progress” pictures from my weight loss journey. This is what influencers do, right?

Oh God, It goes on. Having a bad day? Then I’d post, and the mere validation via the form of likes from people I’ve never met, would give me an instant feeling of gratification. This is a fact by the way. The instant “hit” from seeing a like roll in releases the same amount of dopamine as sex or a line of cocaine. So rock’ n roll.

I cannot go ten minutes without checking my accounts. I automatically reach for my phone when I’m working, and have to force myself to put it back down. Endless scrolling fills my days with mindless tweets and Instagram models that I will never look like, who live lives I will never lead. I post selfie after selfie, engaging in this constant cycle of comparison and validation, liking and posting, like I’m wired up to some automatic millennial mode. Some may even call it narcissism. Is it? I don’t think it is. I think it’s probably the opposite. A strange need to be liked by others. But I can’t stop. And do I even want to? We need to call out our social media usage for what it is, an addiction.

This light-hearted confession of my “addiction” to others is what made me take a long hard look at my relationship with social media. Instagram and Twitter have no real effect on my life, I know that, but I put so much value upon them anyway. Why do I care about what others think? Why can’t I just be happy being me? But actually, I am happy being me. My comfortable-ness with who I am right now has allowed me to be so brazen and open about my feelings for the first time in a while. So perhaps the question is, Why can’t I just be happy being me, online? I’m not sure if I’m pitching this as a rhetorical question, or an open-ended one. The answer could be obvious, but I can’t seem to grasp it.

I think in time, or that I hope, that this idolisation of others online will come crashing down, and social media will become a collection of friendly, fun and lighthearted platforms again. We’re all aware of the exaggeration of reality across the gram’, yet we feed into it nonetheless, desperate to be a part of this new-age movement of status and belonging that faces our generation. But how about we go against the current; We are so much more than our follower count, our likes and our selfies. Let’s make that our millennial revolution.