The Joy and Terror of Being Perceived
Unsolicited thoughts on beauty and online image
One thing I deeply appreciate about my parents is the way they spoke to and encouraged me when I was a kid. They were, and remain today, so supportive and kind and complimentary, but always about the right things. They told me I was smart, that I was kind, that I made good decisions and that I could be anything I wanted if I put my mind to it. But they rarely, if ever, commented on the way that I looked.
I think I can count on one hand the number of times either of them called me pretty or beautiful until I was a full-blown adult. Not in a “they thought I was ugly” kinda way – it was more of a “this is simply irrelevant to discuss” situation. And I’m so thankful for that; pressure from adults to look or even dress a certain way can really fuck up a kid. Until I was a tween, the way I looked to other people wasn’t something I thought much about. Of course I wanted to be pretty, but as a child it felt like something that might happen in the future – not something I was expected to be in that moment.
I can pinpoint almost exactly when the pressure to be perceived externally began.
That moment is inextricably linked to both the dawn of my adolescence and the dawn of my internet presence. I think it’s pretty normal to feel sudden anxiety about your appearance when entering junior high – especially when you’re coming from a small art-focused elementary school where everyone’s weird and creative and your teachers spend months helping you write operas instead of teaching you long division. But I don’t think it was normal until EXACTLY that point in human history for young tweens to have to contend with not only how they come off to their peers in person, but also who they are in a digital world – a world that anyone can access at any time.
The fact that I was able to reach age 12 before having to think about this is a gift. I might have grown up online, but people not much younger than me were simply born there. Their parents set up Facebook and Instagram pages dedicated to documenting their baby smiles and videos of their first steps. The algorithms have known every inch of their faces since they emerged from the womb. Their view of themselves, their sentience, their very humanity has never not been linked to the versions of them their parents created on social media — virtual avatars their friends, family, peers and even strangers can interact without their consent. When they are finally old enough to control their own images, they aren’t starting from scratch like I was. They’re taking over admin duties on a page that’s as old as they are.
What if they want to rebrand? What if they want to disappear? I can’t imagine the mindfuck.
I got the luxury of a blank slate, and I filled it willingly with all the things I yearned to be. I loaded up on teen magazines and plastered the walls of my childhood bedroom with their pages. I studied the profiles and blogs of other girls and took pieces of them for myself. I dyed my hair and plucked my eyebrows and started practicing makeup in the mirror for hours after school.
I spent my babysitting money thrift shopping for vintage clothes and took photos of myself for Xanga, cosplaying the sad, cool indie girl I wanted everyone to think I was. Maybe just a year before I’d been a happy, silly kid who still believed her stuffed animals could talk, but there was no evidence of her online. My parents were right – I could be whoever I wanted. I’m not sure this was what they had in mind.
You can tell Taylor Swift is exactly my age – I too am a mirrorball, I can change everything about me to fit in. But along with the internet’s power to help me shift into the girl I wanted to become came the realization that suddenly, people could see me – or maybe see HER – any time they wanted to. They could provide their feedback in the form of mean comments or positive affirmation.
It was intoxicating. I drank up every compliment like I was dying of thirst and took every negative comment deeply to heart. I loved the attention and at the same time felt sick at the idea that anyone could take me out of context. I felt I should be able to control my image – online and offline – in such a way that no one could possibly misunderstand who I was.
It doesn’t get better!!
After 20 years of evolving as a person, I’m sad to report I am still caught in that trap. I still want so desperately to be seen, and yet the fact that anyone can see me is terrifying. Even just five years ago when I still used Facebook regularly, I used to get stoned and deactivate my account every other day. I’d look at my profile and realize that anyone could look at my face, hear my voice, read my thoughts, or search through my likes – even if I wasn’t around.
Today I scroll more often than I’d like to admit through all my posts on Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, trying to understand the person everyone else can see. I know she’s me, but who is she to them? I could be asleep, I could be dead, I could be on a two-week meditation retreat in the Ozarks, and yet a part of me will always be available for consumption. Does that freak me out? Yeah!! Yet here I am, feeding the machine with new content, new photos, new pieces of myself for you to file away in the idea of me that lives in your head.
Because, God, I want to be consumed. I want to be liked, desired, admired. I want you to want me!! But I would also love to know how exist without the crushing pressure of being everything to everyone. I want to not want to be wanted. You know?
Anyway, here are a few outfits I’ve worn lately that I like.
What do you THINK!?!? Am I cool?? Am I pretty? Am I HER???? WHO IS SHE ANYWAY??? Let me know in the comments!
Until next time, my little Classically Online Kitties ❤️
I haven’t thought about my Xanga for about seventeen years and now I’m wondering if it’s still out there archived somewhere just waiting to be discovered and I find that blood curdlingly terrifying but also kind of thrilling.