Pretty Boy // H.S

4.

God, I hate formal dinners. Especially with people I don't particularly like.

There's something so humiliating about them, something so pretentious, that anyone who's self-aware counts down the seconds until they can leave. It's like you can feel the eyes of all other guests on you, watching your every move and silently judging the excessive grandeur that's happening across from them. It's always about the image you present when there, giving people an illusion that your life is better than theirs. I hate the façade of it all.

Despite my wealth, I've never been accustomed to this life. I grew up comfortably until Dad left, and then Mum had to work twice as hard to make sure we had a roof over our head. That's something that is rarely ever discussed about single mothers; how much they sacrifice for their families. Instead, society has deemed them the runts of the litter for failing to uphold the one thing that was asked of them. Matriarchs deserve more credit for what they go through, the endless expectations and constant belittling.

But because of this, I feel I have a better sense of how the world works. I have lived through comfort, through struggle, and now luxury. It is a rare occurrence where I actually display my wealth to the world. It's something I'd much rather keep to myself because of how acutely aware I am of the strain is can place on other people. People that work even harder yet fail to be compensated for their efforts. The world is a cruel place, but the system is fixed.

I am but another resident of it, simply trying to make my way without trouble. For the most part I've been successful, but when I'm surrounded by these people I am convinced my achievements are far less significant than theirs. Unsurprisingly they are all men. Of course, they would be the ones pushing for these frivolous events. Anything to show how great you are, I suppose. Even if it is for me.

Harry still hadn't grasped onto the fact that despite my position at the company, the business board will always hold my gender over me. The first woman to lead the company. When the role was offered to me, it was marketed as a gift. I should be thankful that they're bestowing it upon me. I should have known then not to accept, but it's the job of a lifetime. While I may hate the people I work with, I love what I do.

Marketing sounds like an easy job, but it's far from it. It's about always thinking one step ahead of other creatives, always knowing what an audience wants, always being able to market yourself regardless of the situation. In many ways, it's like what Harry does. I have to facilitate an image that people want, that makes them feel something for the products we advertise, that helps someone find confidence and passion. Harry does this on a daily basis as an escort, it's just on a personal level. I have hundreds of people separating me from the clients, which I enjoy to a certain extent but perhaps there will always be a longing to see the rewards myself, to feel the appreciation and watch someone grow.

I like helping people; it's what drives me. It's never done for something in return, always because I have enough compassion in my heart for others. Watching someone achieve something and helping them get there, helping them realise their potential, it's what satisfies me the most in this world. Maybe because it's what I've been conditioned to do. Maybe because I'm too good of a person. All I know is it's a skill of mine. But at what cost is my own self-respect and sanity? When do I start appreciating myself more?

It's not that I don't love myself. I do. But after years of being made to feel small I can only stand so tall. I can only reach so high on the shelves before it topples around me. I'll always worry that nothing is as it seems, that I'm not doing enough or moving at the pace I should. I hold myself to a higher standard than most, which only fuels the anxiety in my mind.

I remember when I first went to see a doctor about my anxiety. I didn't want to go, I didn't think there was a problem. Just me overreacting as always. But mum forced me to go because she hated seeing me beat myself up all the time. She'd noticed how it had started to affect every aspect of my life, too. I rarely slept, I never found the time to eat, I would spend an hour in the shower scrubbing at my skin as my thoughts took over and plagued my conscience. I stepped out of the bathroom one day with my skin red raw and she'd assumed I'd done it intentionally, which is why I was sent straight to a therapist. I'm not sure if I did. I didn't realise I was doing it, to be honest.