Can We Admit We’re Not Okay?
All this positive spin and influencer preening make me feel more alone.
An TikTok influencer unboxes her Christmas presents on camera. Ribboned box after box, she unfurls a pricey piece of finery, dangles it in front of the camera, and throws it on the floor. For a moment she gushes over all the Van Cleef, all the Chanel, and here I am popping Ativan like cough drops because I can’t make my financials work. No matter how much I hustle or how hard I work, my bank account is slimming down to zero. Yet, millions laud a teenager who has more than she could ever want and fails to appreciate it.
People are famous for preening on cue and I have a master’s degree and work experience and I wonder if I’ll actually be homeless. But I allow myself only a moment of panic because I’ve got to get back to business. There’s no point in wallowing because tick toc, tick toc.
Bite down hard until you can taste the blood. Like coins in your mouth.
I’m operating on a delay. Maybe it’s because I’ve endured so much childhood trauma that I don’t have time for simply — I simply have to function. I’ve always been the adult in the room, the fixer. I carried my book-bag to school at six in the dark winter morning. Waiting for the janitor to let me in so I can sleep on the wooden bench until daylight…
