Myself and my online me

I munch quietly on my organic cereal, contemplating my next move. The golden rays of morning sun can’t pierce the cold shiver of fear that remains a constant companion. Duplicitous lives are hard to manage, even harder when one’s face is a regular on the socials. 

I open the app where my latest post resides. 3,000 more likes since the previous hour. I sigh with the awareness of loneliness despite the rush of social media dopamine. It’s never enough. The tide of fake friendship drowns out the constant ache of longing. It rises to the surface, only to be corrected by another rush of real and imagined adrenaline. The like button…my enduring friend.

My thumb expertly scrolls through the cleverly designed mosaic, revealing artistic variations of a repeated subject – me. My face, my body, my poses; all choreographed to tell one version of my story. I portray beauty, power, and realized dreams and the insights don’t lie. People love my pretend life. With every added filter, a piece of my true self resigns. There isn’t enough room for the two of us who look less alike each day. 

Myself and my online me.

I tried authentic. I tried real. I tried showing up as the person I was born to be. But the dopamine hits slowed down. Less people wanted reality, preferring instead to enter the fantasy with me. So, my page became my stage. 

I start each new day with a full makeover and costume changes. Those characters soon become more palatable than who I am beneath the disguise. I claim no angle, while cleverly posing so all that remains to be seen is all I don’t want you to see. My audience grows at the same pace as my insecurity.

Trendy hotels, themed parties, gourmet food. I try anything to take the focus off of me. But this is my stage, act one, over and over again. I ponder how it will come to an end. What will it look like to graciously exit this business/personal life? How did I end up the editor in chief of my own life? The magazines on my side table have nothing on my masterful creativity. 

I am my own cover story. 

"I like this,"

I tell myself, putting my bowl in the sink and rinsing the last remains of lightly sweetened bran flakes into the drain. Why go to a 9-5 job when I can be on call every second of the day in the comfort of my home? And then it occurs to me, the focus is on me. 

I can never leave work.

I can’t call in or take a personal day without guilt. The fans demand content (or so I tell myself). Every vacation is void of rest because pictures don’t edit themselves. My boyfriend and I talk about marriage. I get excited because it would be a great season finale for the gram. And yet, I’m terrified because the pressure is on to get it just right. Is the stress worth the few hundred thousand new followers I’d gain?

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I take a look around. Everything I own has become a prop. I live in a movie set. I never leave the film studio. My cleverly choreographed feed has morphed into a carefully curated life. Perfection.

“Ugh.” 

I mutter under my breath, wishing I could muster up the courage to end this charade. The pressure is overwhelming and I’m cracking underneath the demand of excellence. Society fed me a lie that I could be the heroin of my own story without a narrative arc. Is there room for a plot twist?

A surge of excitement fills my chest as I remember a long-awaited appointment today. I have lunch scheduled with another influencer in town. This girl has got serious social traction. A photo with her will certainly grant me a competitive edge with other accounts. The rush of popularity is addictive. Exhilaration.

Hair and makeup, check. The latest outfit delivered to me by my favorite shop, check.  The perfect accessories, check. Smile, check. Phone charger to make sure my battery doesn’t die because that would be the end of life itself… Check.

I exit the place of my dreams to head to the local eatery with just enough flair to make our photos pop. My mood is back. I am ready for anything. I check the socials while a driver takes me downtown. A double-click here, a comment there. I answer a stack of DM’s while traffic halts. There’s always more to do in the online universe. 

As we round the street where my opportune lunch awaits, I hear the familiar buzz of a notification. It will have to wait, I muse to myself, checking to make sure every hair is in place and my luscious lips are painted to perfection. You never know who might be lurking around the corner, waiting for my demise. I can’t let my guard down. Ever.

Sunglasses on, strut in place, I stride with confidence afforded to me by sheer determination and drive. I tuck any leftover insecurity inside my cleverly accessorized chest and lift my chin. I see my lunch date ahead.

“Hello darling!”

Influencer #2 is rising from the table where we will attempt to be friends. This is a coordinated business meeting where each of us will take a portion of the proceeds. Her followers for mine. My fans for hers. We will trade fragments of favor from our individual spheres. This moment is one of many to come. 

I order my usual colorful fare and a cold drink pretty enough to photograph. We smile while checking each other’s teeth and talking about the latest editing software. The exhaustion of finding substance to talk about is beginning to show on our porcelain faces. The show must end. 

I rise from my calculated perch and thank her for her time. She is gracious and poised. I walk away wondering if she thinks I’m as pretty as I think she is. 

I’ll do this again tomorrow.

My charming life as an influencer. I have influenced myself into thinking this is real life.