God, this sucks!

Imposter syndrome, shame cycles, and the romanticization of suffering

Over the last two years I have endured a series of explosive metamorphosis’: of which were harrowing, unexpected, and sometimes — in the right light — glorious. All of this change has wreaked havoc on my sense of self, stability, and sanity, causing bouts of critical self doubt and feelings of aimlessness and fatigue. Aren’t I just a breath of fresh air? I know. Keep reading! I’ll find some hope and positivity down there eventually.

I’ve been on a relentlessly stormy voyage of scrupulous introspection, wondering when and how I’ll break through to a more stable and serene sea. I’ve thrown myself into work, reinstated my gym membership, deleted the dating apps, and freshly stocked my bathroom cabinet with my favorite Vitamin C sheet masks, which go for $7 a pop. Despite all of these efforts, I am still capital S Sad. It makes me wonder, if I’m beginning to take root in this type of cerebral reformatory, shielding myself from the perils of vulnerability….as a coping mechanism? Shock. If I’m in a perpetual state of sadness, no one could ever make me sad again! Or perhaps, I’m just an emotional masochist.

My Lexipro’s efficacy is waning, and my freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s cherry garcia (the best flavor, by law) isn’t hitting the same. I feel as though my career is finally revealing itself after years of denial, but I still struggle with confronting the lurking ghoulishness of imposter syndrome. The other day I was driving to Chicago for a test shoot, severely disassociating to the point where I felt I had arrived through quantum teleportation…all because I started spiraling about my ability to be a stylist who was ASKED to do the job. You couldn’t pay for this type of insanity!

In my day to day I’d like to think I have a bit tighter of a grip on reality. However, it would be by way of hyper-fixation and misplaced logic and reasoning to address the spookyooky feelings skulking about in there. Intellectualizing your emotions should be an olympic sport, because I’d at least be a bronze medalist (gold medalists are sociopaths to be clear). I’m sad for obvious reasons. David Lynch has died, Skinnytok is a thing, and Mark Zuckerberg is gunning to anesthetize humanity of its one sole purpose: to be human.

I’d like to think the concept of reinvention in response to this universal state of suffering would fix everything. Or what the girls love calling a “glow up.” But here’s the thing: in the wise words of Mitski, “I’ve been big and small, and big and small, and big and small again, and still nobody loves me.”

I have been a personal victim in believing that a glow up could solve all my unbearably vexing woes. Scrolling through my camera roll, I feel like I could have had a career in amateur prosthetics. I’ve had mousey brown hair one year and platinum the next. I’ve ranged from a size 10 to a size 0, wore pastel puff sleeve dresses, then low rise pubic bone straddling denim. I’ve glowed up and down, up and down, much like Mitski muses, only to swim in the same petri dish of despair. So I have bad news: no matter what you look like, you are unfortunately not immune to the common droll and crushing anguish associated with the human experience. Not to be a Debbie Downer, but someone had to say it.

With all that being said, I want to end on a positive note. This may have the air of debilitating nihilism, but I’d counter and say there is a whiff of hope wafting about: once you accept the inescapable reality of this human condition, you are free. Skip the botox, eat a fucking carb, read a book or two, and delete TikTok…idk. This one little life plods along at a snail pace, then jets past you, you catch up, and then you look around feeling like Squidward in the void. It’ll all be alright.