A Ted Talk led by Meagan Ramsay stated that scientists say 1 and every 3 teenage girls don't participate in classroom discussion because they are too insecure about their appearance and refute to draw attention to themselves. One and five of them don't come to class if they feel ugly. Young girls all over the world are posting videos proposing the self destructing question of “am I ugly?” and leaving it up to society to validate that. These patterns of timorous, meek, self-conscious young adults entering society feeling less begin to pile up and years are lost due to the new infectious epidemic of lonliness. Social media is a dominating contributor dealing with the aspects that we are more connected than ever but somehow so disconnected from ourselves. Media is not only trolling teens into self hatred, but compleling them to a competition of comparison.
Somehow I survived it. Puberty. Three years of body image issues, the constant pressure of friends hanging above me like the blade of a guillotine, and the cold tyranny of acne prone teenage girls poking away at my emotions. Inevitably, the tortourous suffering of middle school molded me into the strong confident woman I am today.
Suffering seems endless at the ages eleven through fourteen. Walls closing in, hearts banging, eyes scratching from their corneas, and suddenly you find yourself sitting in the shower, scribbling in an intoxicated journal of overrun emotions that are solely driven by temporary frustration. Today, I base my happiness on care, how much I care for my family. How much I care for my friends, grades, health and so on, but it’s much easier sad then done.
Summer going into freshman year, I was terribly insecure about myself. Being so self conscious led me to submit to numerous statistical data about teenage anxiety and depression causes. I didn’t want to be a part of my hobbies. I began losing my friends. My mind was controlled by Society’s approval of my adequacy. My happiness sprouted from everyone else’s happiness with me. The most painful thing about being insecure is not knowing that you are.
Kathleen Benson is one of the most beautiful, understanding, intelligent person I know (along with Mariah Carey and Cardi B). During our camp term at Camp Waldemar ( a fine institution of grooming women into building character and self esteem, also known as Manners Camp) she suggested I begin reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck by Mark Manson. When she handed me the book, my mind choked on the title. I raised my eyebrows and sighed with a “Really Kathleen”? “No, no, no, Chandler, it’s actually an amazing book. Please read it!” she pestered and I couldn't help it.
Two days. I finished The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck in two days. Eyes glued to the page, short breaks of breath, and an overall enthusiasm about reading and understanding my emotions. As well as not only undertanding, but learning how to extinct these indangering emotions of self destruction, which at the time was as atypical as a monkey impersonating Ellen Degenere. As I indulged in Manson ́s logic, I came face to face with how incredibly toxic I had been living my life. Sitting in my room after posting a picture on instagram, proving my existence. 495 likes, reload, 496 likes, reload, 498 likes, reload, 500 likes. My body would then sink into the satisfaction of validation and I would feel my mouth begin to make creases in my cheeks. A few moments later I would reload the page, find an Instagram post from a stunning muse. 567 likes, 5, 6, 7, likes. Back to my page, to my post, to my followers. Reload, reload, reload, reload. RELOAD CHANDLER. No longer do I smile, no longer do I feel joy, for I am just left with the tasteless emotions of compare and contrast. The media transformed me and my mind on what was considered ̈acceptable ̈ and I began knick picking every discussion that I came enclosed to. You can’t post twice in one day. Don't tell them that’s wrong. Pull your skirt up. Pull your shirt down. Don't smile. They will see your gap. Don't talk to him, they said he’s weird. Be pretty, be perfect, look at you, look at me, everyone look at ME. I knew I was in trouble when the sight of my reflection brought me to tears. Chandler, I think it’s time to start reading.
Manson’s morals of care and how much one should give, were like the ibuprofen I take for my migraines. Always sitting there, and I knew if I took it, I would feel better. But I didn't. I‘d watch the medicine sit on my counter for days, and let the pulsating pain of my ambitious mind pound on and on. He proposed a rationality of if you care about everything and everyone, the things you should care about the most simply no longer exist. My media obsessed mind was taking away my desire for to care for close family and friends, because I was so focused on reaching the 45 comment count mark. Why should I be spending my time worrying about hundreds of opinions from strangers, who didnt even care about me? By eliminating how much I care, I could ultimately care more. I had to train myself, train myself to let go and grow. I started with Instagram. I no longer wanted to post to prove to be this muse of a figure I do not appear to be. I wanted to post to share an insight in myself and my personality. I was getting sick of looking at my page and swiping to another just to find another perfect parrel staring right back at me. Tearing away from this virtual fantastic Barbie Doll version of myself allowed me to embrace who I really am.
Step two in my conquest to not give a fuck began with eliminating any opinions that arent my own. By this meaning, if someone who I was not particularly close didnt like me I needed to ask myself, why does he or she matter? Ordenarily my answer was a long muteness of uncertainty which then resolved to a No. At this point in time, my vigorous coaching of letting go of other opinions and forming my own began to build. I started indulging back into my interests, finding my likes and dislikes, figuring out what I wanted, who I wanted to be. I soon was crowned empress of myself, ruling every aspect of my life, an absolute monarchy of self confidence.
Congratulations, you have made it to the land of self-love. May I offer you a chardonnay with three pumps of self confidence or possibly some caviar served with high doses of self esteem? After all you are have been bestoud empire as well. You grabbed insecurity and animosity by the throat and demanded “I am your king”, and looked stunning doing it. Manson may have not vouched on this but by looking your best, feeling your best, you will most definitely be your best. Now as I hail an end to my praise of the book that changed my life , I feel immensely gracious and grateful that I can look at myself and no longer feel resentment or irritability. I feel great and no one will can tell me otherwise. Thank you Manson, for helping me get my mentality back.
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