dezz writes essays

the 'jungle' of social media

intro:

hiya!! it's dezzy here; these will be somewhat long so feel free to click away if ur not interested. i barely use wattpad other than to just post things i wanna have for reference later. i hope y'all love them tho<3 see ya

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I have never been one to write in a diary. Journaling found itself rather in the form of artistic aspects when the time arrived to express emotions physically. I collected boxes and book-bags of name-brand colored pencils, markers— supplies of all shapes and sizes that fit the same as a finely-sharpened number two pencil with the intent purpose of documenting countless words on worn-down, crinkled paper; just eager to fill that sheet with life. Even so, I somehow found the basic task of twirling around a marker to perfect my sentiment-filled coloring or to jab whatever feelings I could spill out onto a sketchbook as quite the challenge. I envisioned myself running at a pace much slower than my peers; fumbling and scurrying to catch up, it seemed— without acknowledging that I was letting such desperation define me. As repeated through words of young and old age, identity and self-expression is truly in the eye of the beholder; so why did the task appear so difficult to me?

   Just shoving myself into every chance at conversation, my social environment comparing now more to a jungle than a place of ease— was grueling enough alone, not to mention in a state I perhaps considered a delusion. I was curious, but hesitant; I'd always been that way, which might've only been reasoned by the minuscule depictions of me to the outside eye, but what became a magnifying glass of insecurity internally. Concepts I'd soon learn were detrimental later in life I could only begin to understand at such a young age. This theory presented like a mental loophole; similar to a labyrinth with no representation of an ending. Though other coping methods were readily available on most occasions, factoring in my social situation with education and relationships at such a young age, I had various reasons to feel so overwhelmed. I was pushed by social "authority figures"— school social workers, psychiatrists, counselors, all alike in trying to discover the root cause of whatever they felt they could fix— to plunge into whatever methodical wrap of items could "cure" whatever issue I faced. However, with such continuous vulnerability on the table, I'd fallen into that mantra through my own state of mind. No consideration was truly taken to my childhood, or developmental challenges I'd found over past years.

  Henceforth, I'd decided the time had come to push myself in a gracious hurry out of my shell, coupled with the standard unwillingly placed on me as "shy," by parents and peers. I'd try to establish a presence online, or outside of the surroundings I was required to attend to. I'd discover outside resources and friends, and try everything possible; in this, I'd drifted the furthest from my true identity. Loss of justification and limits on how unrealistically I'd display myself caused my sinkage into unhealthy, constant media-obsession; hoping just to squeeze into a mold which should seem free-form. With this, I consulted other options before I was in too deep; social media "influencers"— larger internet personalities, brands and marketers, or as achievable as an informative YouTube channel— inspired me. I wanted to develop myself into having such a noticeable, admirable presence; I aimed for the goal of creating a following of people who wouldn't know me, but the me I sought after— they wouldn't need to know. After all, these influencers looked so happy just publishing their work online.

   I dabbled into bunches of crafts I'd replicated from simple pictures, twisting my style choices to an uncomfortable extent. Makeup, though something I enjoyed, I belittled the inexperience I had, and left it on the road. Countless filters as rosy as my glasses and face-morphing, hair-changing applications sent me into a spiral with one motive: to simply "grow up." All of this effort cramped my fingers into switching how I sketched with that same pencil entirely. Though, that wasn't the label associated with the vulnerable, squeamish-set middle-school kid; not at the time to the people around me, nor to myself. Reasonably, it wasn't simply experimenting, even— not in the way I thought it would display, if at all— it was arranging myself into a line of whoever I idolized for that month or two to wipe away any trace of my genuine personality. It took a hefty amount of time and cautious thoughts and actions to determine if this delicate, porcelain mask was truly resting on the face of the person I was maturing into, or as plain on a field as the term lies— a mask. Insecurity enveloped me; and it shrouded and reassured the eyes and hearts of those around me, concerned for my well-being, and therefore persuaded myself that I was content with the social contortionist I'd become.