Advice, Happiness, Uncategorized

High On Likes

Ten years ago, if a guy were to approach you in a club, knowing your name and other details about your life, you would run away and scream, “Stalker!”

Now, if a guy does the same, it’s cool; he follows you on Instagram.

It happened to me a few months ago and the guy quickly became aggressive when I apologised for not knowing who he was. It wasn’t cool, it freaked me out.

This angry stranger “followed” my life is pictures. Scrolling through my posts attempting an outside point of view made me feel sick: there were photos of me and my friends in bikinis on holiday, selfies, modelling photos half naked… All which seemed innocent, fun and worst of all normal at the time now seemed seedy and boastful in this weird collection of exhibitionism and narcissism called My Profile.

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It was the last straw on something I’d considered for a while. I disabled my account.

Alarmingly, I’d never thought about Instagram in terms of my privacy. Instead, I’d been building up to disable it after realising that it affected my mental health in a negative way.

Within an hour, no less than four people had sent me texts, ranging from concerned to hurt, asking why I had ‘deleted’ them. I later learned that they had been told this through an app which alerts you when you’re followed or unfollowed by an account. People really are invested in this thing. Relationship dynamics are affected and ego’s are hurt.

Social media is weird. The terms “follow”, “like”, and “share” mean completely different things now than they did years ago, with those phrases and others like “retweet, unfriend, block” becoming everyday conversational dialogue. Social media has become as normal as brushing your teeth.

So many relationships begin, grow, or solely exist in cyberspace. Whole persons and careers are created and maintained on smart phone applications. On a whole, social media is undeniably dumbing us down and running our lives, but I believe Instagram to be the worst; Twitter is a platform for words, a space to be intelligent, funny, witty, charming in 140 characters or less. Facebook, however you use it, is designed to share and keep in contact with friends and family – but Instagram? Instagram puts importance on the physical image. You can write a funny caption, but it’s the photo above it that’s going to get ‘liked’.

Yes, it can be used to share beautiful photographs. But it is photos of people  – particularly attractive women’s faces and bodies – that receive the most likes. Just look at the 11 most liked photo’s on Instagram ever – the physical is of sole-importance.

 

 

It allows us to construct our own fairy-tale image; psychologists use the term ‘self-presentation’, “positioning yourself the way you want to be seen.” A study found that self-presentation is so powerful, that viewing your own social media profiles increases self-esteem.

Compilation of boastful, ‘fun’ posts featuring me as an apparent party girl who holidays more than she’s at home

But Instagram never made me feel good. I’d subconsciously compare myself to everyone else seemingly having a better time, looking their posed, filtered best, usually from the comfort of my own bed while I looked like a frog. We never scroll through Instagram when we’re having fun, do we? I would only scroll when I had nothing better to do, making me receptive to negative feelings of boredom or loneliness before photos had even loaded. I would often close the app feeling undeniably depressed. So why did I continue to use something that was bad for my mental health?

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I’d never thought much about why and what I post until I disabled my account. When I was modelling I used Instagram to network with photographers and promote freebies like skincare and haircuts. I never felt that I was sharing too much of myself. But amongst those arguably useful posts are a few that, after my reflective time out, I now see as nauseatingly narcissistic.

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I actually thought I had made it acceptable because I was being philosophical in my caption, lol

 

Why at 23 years old did I feel that it was necessary to post a photo of myself in a bikini, alone, while on holiday with my boyfriend? The honest answers are:

  1. I wanted my followers to know I was on holiday.
  2. I obviously didn’t think I looked bad, or else I wouldn’t have posted it – I wanted my followers to see that I looked alright.
  3. I knew that a photo of a girl in a bikini will get the likes that, at the time, I unknowingly craved.

It all sounds arrogant, but are you honestly going to tell me that you can’t relate? Chances are you, your friends, your girlfriend, have posted photos for the same reasons. Why else would you take time out of your day to share a photo of yourself to the internet?

We are an insecure generation, constantly feeding off likes and follows for some sense of empty validation from strangers. Although I may look confident in that pink bikini, and at the time I thought I was – if I hadn’t needed validation then I wouldn’t have posted it. My ‘racy’ photos littering my feed now make me feel uncomfortable, especially now realising that strangers have studied them.

Compilation of meaningless, strictly narcissistic, vainglorious, egomaniacal posts posted by yours truly

After my much needed detox, the image of a girl alone in a bathroom seems like the epitome of vanity and shameless narcissism. I want to scream at her, “No one cares! Go jump in the pool! Go live your life! No one needs to see that!”. Yet, 99% of sexualised female celebrities and models do exactly the same thing and are praised for it.

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I recommend every one –even those who think I’m dramatic for thinking an app could affect my mental health – carry out a social media detox for a week and see if you notice a difference in how you think or live your life. I personally have so much more time for productivity; all the time you spend taking photos, or thinking about what photos to post and simply looking into other people’s lives, really does add up.

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The main thing that was putting me off disabling or deleting was FOMO and keeping up appearances; almost as if not posting was in inkling to the outside world that all was not well. But trust me, you are missing out way more on actual real life than what other people are up to. And those ‘likes’ lose importance strangely quickly. After six weeks, I reactivated my account, but now peeking into others’ lives feels really invasive. I have also completely lost that need to post; once or twice I have almost posted something and then asked myself, why?

Close the apps, put down the phone and enjoy the moment. If you’re going to take photos, print them, and give thought to the ones you do post. Don’t try to create an image of the perfect life – live your version of your perfect life.

The only person you should let validate your life is yourself.

PS. Follow @_theluckyleo on Instagram (no selfies, I promise)

ALL IMAGES TAKEN FROM GOOGLE IMAGES & MY OWN INSTAGRAM 

 

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Advice, Happiness

The Ex-Girlfriend Club

When I was 16 I met a boy called Will*. Will was my first everything: first boyfriend, first “I love you”, first other-person-orgasm, first p in my v.

But I wasn’t Will’s first any of those. That title in his life belonged to a girl called Chelsea, subsequently becoming another first for me: the first ex girlfriend.

These were simpler times. Pre Instagram and pre Facebook boom, it took a mutual acquaintance causally mentioning Chelsea for me to find out about her, around four months into our then very teenage relationship.

Of course, I’d recently been experiencing multiple overwhelming emotions for the very first time, such as attachment, sexual connection, vaginal stimulation and the gag reflex. None of these shocked me (the gag reflex comes in at a close second) or hit me quite so hard as the pure stomach turning gut wrenching jealously I felt upon learning of what I envisioned of Will’s “First Love”. Suddenly, our relationship felt tainted, which sounds very Victorian I know, and is strange because it’s not like I ever thought he was a virgin. Funnily enough, the fact that he wasn’t a virgin when he met me made me fancy him even more and installed a confidence that he’d take the wheel on my loss of virginity experience. But now, after discovering the details, I wished that I’d been his first. The awful, juvenile terms “sloppy seconds” and “upgrade/downgrade” was rife in our small town Essex gossip culture. I wasn’t anyone’s seconds. He was. I didn’t feel special anymore.

And to make it worse, she was hot. I tried to find faults in her to comfort my ignorant pubescent woman brain, but failed. She was tall and blonde, with a sexiness about her. I instantly compared this to myself, the unsexed round faced brunette tomboy in thick rimmed glasses, and for the first time ever, contemplated my own attractiveness. My awkward stage went on for longer than most (can we just forget pre-2011 didn’t happen?) whereas it seemed as if she’d never even endured one. As the law of attraction would have it, now knowing her face and name, I started seeing her everywhere on our college campus, but refused to acknowledge her existence, even to my friends. I didn’t need their opinions or even the truth, and I wasn’t insecure enough to put her down in order to pull myself up. She never caused trouble in any way. She was just living her life. But to me, she was the bitch that my boyfriend loved before me.

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(I literally ignored her existence at this party and we still managed to – kind of – be in the same photo.)

We’re raised well prepared for relationships and “love”, but no one ever warned me of the ex girlfriend game. Once over the age of 18, chances are your significant other has known genitalia other than your own. It seems like a simple fact of life, but one we are never emotionally prepped for or allowed to be honest about. No girl wants to be the “psycho” or to ruin her new relationship ‘cool girl’ myth. But if you tell me that you don’t know your S.O’s ex’s name, guess what – I don’t believe you.

Because, for every man I’ve been romantically or sexually involved in, I’ve known at least one ex by name or face, whether I’ve searched them out, stumbled across them or simply heard stories straight from the man’s mouth. Unless you’ve known them personally, they become a ghost like presence in the back of your sub conscious, even if it is a tiny little thought in a darker moment of the day, existing in a universe parallel to your own – still kissing and loving the man that is now yours. Their names become harder to pronounce, as if even the phonetic produces a venom, paralysing your lips. And even if their name is rarely mentioned, no matter what age, to some degree your person shared experiences and parts of their life with this other person. So in getting to know your person to the best of human ability, they’re going to remain in there somewhere, however much hidden.

To date, Chelsea is the only ex I’ve had no choice but to share an intimate space with, i.e a campus, a corridor or a mutual friends party. I’ve seen others in social situations that have been easy to escape from. I even worked with one, but didn’t have to be in close proximity with her. Chelsea is the only ex who’s persona was crafted in real life. All of the others have been created in a cosmic space between my brain and the internet.

For all the advantages that technology has granted us, among it’s negatives are the utensils to feed our curiosity in this particular subject. A simple Google search could show you half a dozen different medias that she has used over the years. I once found myself three years deep into an ex’s blog, flooded with photos of her and the guy on amazing holidays, making that past parallel universe far too present. And as the years have gone on it’s become as easy as a swipe of the index finger to fall head first down the rabbit hole and suddenly find your self finger slipping on a photo she posted 120 weeks ago. Social media gives us the tools to construct these once mysterious figures from the past. A 140 character tweet somehow acts as an autobiographical look into their soul, as does an over used Emoji or a one sentence self-bio.

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^THE WORST. 

You may believe that my behaviour and outlook is “psycho”. I’m ok with that, because I could name you twenty girls that have admitted to the same behaviours, and if we’re all psychos, then I guess we’re psychos. My own mother, at 53, tries to hide the flames in her eyes whenever her partners ex wife is mentioned, but fails. Thank God she doesn’t know how to use Facebook. It’s an organic emotion and action given our lives and culture mixed with our female animalistic instincts. It’s completely out of my usual nature and conscious control: I try my best to love or at least appreciate and support all women. But mixed with this possessive, jealous, stereotypically Leo outlook of needing to be the very best and perhaps a deep down insecurity within relationships, I’ve projected my inward thoughts onto their uniquely-crafted-by-me personas, and created monsters, of which are (probably) very far from their true selves. Take it through extensive experience, stalking is a game you enter with absolutely zero chances of winning, as is comparing yourself or your present relationship to any other human or past relationship. You will never come out of a stalk feeling better about yourself, as much as you like to believe the unflattering drunk photo of her does. Even this paragraph made me hate myself… But truthfully it’s never ever good to feel like that. It’s all about understanding our own brains and situations and having clarity, and not feeling guilt over emotions we don’t understand.

It’s taken me years to establish clarity on why we seek out the ex. I think it begins rather innocently as purely fierce curiosity – trying to work out if he has a type and if you fit it, or measure up to her level, even though a true ‘level’ will never exist. Plus, curiosity over our own metaperception: if I see her a certain way, does he see that in me? Is that how I appear to others? If she is forced into your personal business by way of contact – I’ve had a few weird messages from some scorned ex’s and one that has called the guy while I was sitting next to him to tell him she missed him – it becomes even harder not to investigate a potential ‘threat’. For me personally, this curiosity has at times murdered, butchered and dismembered the cat, and developed into a weird sort of morbid fascination. I’ve paralleled our lives so freely that it’s almost scary – 141 weeks ago when exhibit A. was in New York being a successful supermodel, I was crying after my first fashion week in London. 214 weeks ago when exhibit B. was loved up with my current love… Oh… I was loved up with my ex love… Awkward.

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The worst type of photo to see whilst stalking his ex / anyone could ever post. 

Which leads perfectly to another interesting comparison: unless you males have a secret community with a strict confidentiality agreement, you seem to react to our ex’s in the complete opposite way – remaining so confident in your patriarchal position that you just lack that need to compare, analyse and care whatsoever. When asked if he cared about in any way or had stalked any of his gf’s ex’s, one male friend laughed, and could only muster, “Why would I?”. Following continued probing, he later added, “I guess if she’s with me now, there’s just no need or want to go looking into her past. The past is the past. You girls seem to love the past”.

I can’t help but agree with that generalisation. But in these irrational, jealous moments, we also seem to magically forget that we have our own pasts, once too featuring other people: perhaps even more in love and having even better sex. There have been a few ex girlfriend’s that I have seen as SO beautiful, in a emotionally distressful time when I couldn’t feel worse about myself, convincing myself that I was the ugly one after a string of Candice Swanepoel’s. It didn’t help that a friend of the boyfriend, every time she drank, told me she loved me and that I was so much better than his most recent ex. “You’re great. I mean, she was BEAUTIFUL, but so cardboard. You are so clever and funny!” The first time she said it, I took it as a compliment. By the third time that she’d repeated the exact same sentence, all I managed to hear was, “SHE was BEAUTIFUL” – i.e, you’re not. I felt too embarrassed to tell my boyfriend at that time, so confided in another male, who cuttingly told me, “Even if she is way hotter, why do you care? You’ve had way hotter men than *****, but you still prefer him. It’s obviously the same with him otherwise he’d still be with her and wouldn’t want to be with you.”

Here’s an exercise for you: Close your eyes and picture your “best looking” boyfriend/sexual partner. I don’t mean your most attractive over all to you or the one you fancy or love the most. I mean the usual consensus of what’s physically “good looking” to the general public.

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If it’s your current, lucky you, I guess he’s perfect. But chances are he’s the guy from your past that had good looks and not a lot else. Now compare them to your current, in the same way you’ve compared yourself to his ex’s. In my case, exhibit Lol’sFromMyPast was a 6’4 male model gym buff who turned my flatmate’s gooey eyed and wet knickered. He was also dumb and dull as fuck and gave me nothing but something nice to look at, the novelty of which wore off after three weeks, which was still far too long. Exhibt SexiestManInMyEyes was an intelligent, endlessly interesting and charismatic, 5’9, un photogenic, wonky nosed tech geek, who gave me more orgasms than my right hand. The result? What does “looks” matter? Looks are nothing to do with love or even attractiveness and are always completely in the eye of the beholder anyway. Ask me which man I’d pick given the chance out of the two – I’d pick the latter in a fraction of a heartbeat every single time, with absolutely no thought needed.

We see every little thing that could be wrong with us, when others just see you in all your perfectly imperfect glory. I think women think that men think about “looks” ten times more than they actually do. If my current boyfriend told me he’d been humped over on the sofa stalking my ex on his phone for an hour, accidentally liking a year old picture in the process, I’d be dumbfounded. I’d demand to know what had lead him to such a time wasting activity. The ex couldn’t be further from my mind, living in another parallel universe filled with people who’s body parts once touched your mouth but who’s presence you now could not care less about.

Coincidentally, there’s other people I could not care less about, who’s bodies haven’t been near my mouth or any other orifice: my ex boyfriends’ current girlfriends’.

While conducting an albeit light study on other girls’ feeling towards ‘the ex’, another target came to light organically: 8 out of 10 girls I asked were very interested in their current’s ex, but 7 of those added that they also looked for and resented their ex’s current. This is really interesting to me, as it is honestly something that I am not effected by. Luckily, by the time they’ve moved on, I’ve moved on. I’ve been forced to acknowledge their existence, online and in person, but have never ever ever felt that little jealousy twinge I’ve had for ex’s. When I see the currents, I can appreciate their looks or overall character without compromising my own, sometimes even KNOWING that they are way prettier than me, and – I promise you – not caring one little bit. I don’t know exactly what the difference is, or how I can hold such opposing views on the two, or why some girls feel the opposite way. Perhaps that’s a-whole-nuva article.

Lastly, another super important thing to realise in order to come to terms with their ex is the strong likeliness that you are or one day will be the ex girlfriend to someone’s boyfriend. Imagine a girl you’ve never had anything to do with, examining your thoughtless Instagram posts, thinking you’re dumb and wondering if he found you prettier. Freaky Matrix style shit, huh? Ever had a boyfriend talk shit about his ex? He’ll probably be talking shit about you to his new girlfriend in a year from now.

After the first year of my relationship, I never saw Chelsea again, but if I saw her name on a friend’s Facebook, did I have a little look? Of course. Although, as time went on it became way less frequent, until after three years Will and I broke up for good. As my experience in men grew, so did my experience in mythic “ex girlfriend’s”. In turn, the longer I was with the man, the less I cared about the ex’s. I’ve come to realise, that you really only fully get over the girl when you get over the guy. With no judgement, I can’t help but wonder if the girls that have an issue with their ex’s current, perhaps aren’t over either of them.

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Earlier this year, I received a random LinkedIn invitation from none other than Chelsea. A name that once bubbled my blood now just rung prettily in my ears, and was one I realised had been buried deep in the past. The memories of my past feeling towards her shocked me, and suddenly everything clicked. I found clarity.

I accepted, saw a link to her blog and spent the next hour reading. She seemed cool and clever and exactly my type of girl. I somehow felt I owed it to my 16 year old self, to add her on Facebook and tell her I loved her writing – call it writer karma if you will. A week later we met for the first time. I was excited to finally speak to her and debunk the myths in my head. But like a first date, I was nervous we wouldn’t get on and I’d have to devise an escape route through a public toilet window.

Happy ending alert: we did get on, shared a few bottles of wine and laughed hours away without any weird “what-shall-I-say-now?” moments. In fact, I think I get on with her easier than I ever got on with Will. If you’d have shown a 16 year old me this scene from her future, she never would have believed you.

It’s so weird to think that, the way I feel about Will and whoever his current girlfriend may be now, is the same way Chelsea felt about Will and I way back then. She was over him, not caring who I was. I was in love with him, caring way too much about her. And now seven years later, we were in a bar in Notting Hill together, getting on so well that the topic of our once shared ‘love’ was the dullest and briefest thread of the evening’s conversation.

A POEM:

So remember, ex girlfriends are humans too
living their own unique lives as are you
If you’re cool and he finds you’re cool
chances are she’s cool
and you’d find her cool too.

Give it a few years – who knows – you could be friends.

ALL PHOTOS AND IMAGES FEATURED ARE COURTESY OF GOOGLE IMAGES & FACEBOOK.

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Happiness

“You can’t judge a girl by her (stunningly beautiful) face.”

‘Beauty’ is constantly shoved down our throats like a binge of the most delicious food you can imagine. My job entails being forever surrounded by the most visually pleasing winners of the genetic lottery.

Of course it’s hard not to compare yourself to all these magnificent creatures but for the most part – unless I’m feeling ultra gross and stuffing my face with peanut butter and chocolate – I can completely remove myself from that evil place of comparison and just enjoy and appreciate the beauty in others.

But… it has made me realise one thing – beauty, as we know it, means absolutely NOTHING if what’s inside that person isn’t beautiful. It’s the most cliche of cliches, but like most cliches, it is 100% unescapable. I have recently encountered jealousy, insecurity and downright nastiness from a particular female individual that I dare not name. Previous to this, I had been in awe of her physicality. She has exotic features and a pretty innocence, also able to be incredibly sexy and womanly when she wants to be. Having never actually had a proper conversation with her, I took it upon myself to subconsciously judge her and assume we would get on swimmingly. Why wouldn’t we? She looked “nice”, whatever that means.

I won’t go into any details about our altercation. All I know is that now, when she pops up on my social networks, or I notice her on a billboard or in a magazine, instead of marvelling at her obvious beauty, all I see is ugliness. There are a lot of beautiful “2D” people out there. But when it comes to ‘real’ people (that’s people that we know in real life, that we see in person day to day – not people we think we know but actually just read what they’re up to in 140 characters or less) it’s a rare thing to find a truly genuine beautiful person. It’s beautiful because it’s so unordinary.

Roald Dahl said, “A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.” Romantic as it may be, he’s completely spot on. It’s not about your looks. There is a tremendously HUGE difference between being good looking and being attractive. I’m certain that I have the most mesmerisingly gorgeous group of best friends, not only because yes, they’re lookers, but mainly because they are so bloody great on the inside that their amazing energies are shining through to the outside.

Another cliche is that Love is Blind. It most certainly is, but you know what? I’m fine with that. You may not be everyones cup of tea, but if you are wildly attractive on the inside then someone will fall wildly in love with you and see you as the most beautiful person on this planet. I think my boyfriend is the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on, because I am so attracted to all aspects of him. I think my best model friends top any Victoria Secret model (my friend Maddie is so ridiculously beautiful outside AND inside that when I see her all I do is stroke her face while trying to listen to her stories). I think my mum is the prettiest woman in the world. Just like I know that many, many people must think that above un named female individual is great in all aspects, and not just her perfectly symmetrical face.

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Advice, Happiness

“Far too many people are looking for the right person, instead of trying to be the right person.”

How many times have you heard a loveable friend say the heart wrenching words,

“I NEEEEED a boyfriend/girlfriend/lover/life partner”?

During a conversation with Steve Inskeep aired on Morning Edition in 2012, the late great Phillip Seymour Hoffman said, “to be loved, I think, is like, the thing that gets you up in the morning.” I agree with him to an extent. Of course, we all want to be loved, cared for and somewhat cherished. But hearing the desperation in my friends voice – a girl that is for the most part really cool and intelligent, by the way – made me feel thoroughly sad. My facial expression was not too dissimilar to this:

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The friend sensed it. I’ve never been good at “putting on a face.”

The idea of LOVE, however you may chose to define it, is romantically installed in us from the word go. “Soul mates” sounds ever so lovely, doesn’t it? The idea that there is someone out there just waiting to be found (or for the lucky ones, found long ago) that will make our life complete and our entire being happy and fulfilled forever and ever until death do us part. Nice sentiment, sure. But is that really all the human race is capable of? Needing another whole person to complete another entirely whole person?

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My opinion is, we shouldn’t need another human to make us whole. I’ve been ‘in love’, to the best of my knowledge*. It’s really really nice, and I’m in no way disputing that. But there is a lot of things in life which make us whole, and I don’t think that responsibility should be laid upon any human other than yourself. And what exactly defines a soul mate? Richard Bach says, “A soulmate is someone who has locks that fit our keys, and keys to fit our locks. When we feel safe enough to open the locks, our truest selves step out and we can be completely and honestly who we are.” Instead of falling over backwards in our attempts to find ‘the one’ that will complete us, searching hopelessly for the perfect person (if there is such a thing as perfection personified) and using up important time, energy and emotion in helpless feeble relations, perhaps we should look inside ourselves. What if we already own both our lock and key, without the need for a foreign object?

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I like the idea that we may have many soul mates across our lives. Whether it be a best friend, a companion, a sibling or a parent. If you’re one of the lucky ones that has fallen in love with their best friend, and believe that they are the missing puzzle piece to your work of wooden art, I am very happy for you. There is nothing wrong with being happy in love. In fact, I wish it for all of us. But there is so much more to life and so much more to the world than finding a romantic love. Love can fill a gap, but no one can complete you but yourself.

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*Love is many different things to many different people, and in my experience, you’re only in love with the person that you’re currently in love with. When that love dies and you find another person to love or another kind of love, the past love somehow becomes undermined or disappears at all. So can everyone ever really be sure that they are “in love”????? But that, dear reader, is a conversation for another day.

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Advice, Happiness

The 21 Year Old Itch: Attack of the Quarter Life Crisis

If you were to ask a twelve year old me where I expected to be at twenty one years old, I would have, without hesitation, replied that I would probably (definitely) be in Hollywood, with two (or perhaps, three) Academy Awards already sitting comfortably on my marble mantle piece. I’d be wearing head to toe Chanel, with an equally designer clad boyfriend/ fiancé (probably a previous co-star) who loved me for me, not only just my class, fame and money. I’d be made.

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Flash forward ten years to a newly twenty two year old me. And guess what?

No, I am not in sunny Hollywood. I am 5,437 miles away in a very stormy London. I have – drum roll – zero Academy Awards (are you dissapointed?). I am certainly not dressed head to toe in Chanel, but draped in a comfy mens t-shirt (twelve year old me shudders).  I do have a nice boyfriend at least, although he was most definitely not my co-star. My taste in men has changed considerably since then. Actors make me cringe nowadays.

I’m not completely helpless on the career front either. Since I graduated with a Literature degree I have been modelling somewhat successfully. I’m still an “actress”, going to auditions and taking acting classes. My life, on paper, sounds sweet. And let’s face it, things could be a lot worse. But one day, very recently, as I was minding my own business, it hit me. A little devil in a graduation gown popped in my brain.

“Hi. Where you aware that you’ve been out of education for a whole year and you haven’t even paved out your career yet? Ha! You failure!”

I found myself suddenly overwhelmed with life’s big questions: Am I on the right track? Am I doing well enough? Am I making enough money? Am I really and truly making the most out of my life?

We’re brought up on happy endings; you just happen to bump into your Mr. Perfect and bang, you’re married off with a perfect relationship. Somehow, you’re picked out of a crowd and handed an opportunity for your dream job. Happy endings just don’t come to us quickly or as suddenly, unless it’s the type of happy ending you receive in a massage parlour. My parents always told me I could be whatever I wanted to be, and I believed them. But no one tells you how difficult it is or gives you a step by step guide of how to get there. All this false expectation leaves us with an immense amount of pressure.

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Born in 1992, I am a member of Generation Y. I come from an era in which every thought, goal and achievement is posted on multiple sites for us all to witness on portable screens. It is impossible not to compare our lives to others when it’s shoved in our faces every time we unlock our smart phones.

Let’s face it, we carefully pick and chose what we are sharing with our social network. In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”  Oh look, she’s having soooo much fun at that party. He’s making soooo much money. She loves her boyfriend sooooo much. We are forced to keeps tabs on what everyone else is up to, whether it’s getting married and having babies, sitting front row at LFW or getting promoted to CEO of some big shot company. We all know it’s grossly exaggerated, rose tinted and carefully portrayed, yet it still manages to persuade us that everyone else has it better. At the basis, the internet is a platform to show off. No one would dare admit that they too are struggling. It’s all about keeping up appearances.

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So I went searching for some honesty, and the results were surprising: almost everybody I spoke to admitted to experiencing some sort of personal existential panic between the ages of 20-23. Some remember this crux period as a distant memory as long as twenty years ago, while some were, as I am, presently lost in the culmination fog.

If this is something we all experience, why is this quarter life crisis epidemic not openly discussed? Why weren’t we warned?

Everyone tells us that the twenties are our prime. It’s supposed to be this magical time in our lives where we have fun with our friends, build relationships and careers. See the world. Make memories that we can tell our grandchildren around a camp fire. But nothing will ruin your 20’s more than the anxiety that you should have your life together by now.

Perhaps the quarter life crisis is a crucial part of self discovery. Those who have over come it, say that “things just happened naturally”. Many are now happy and successful in fields they had no intention of getting into when they were 21. I suppose life is all about being happy, and success is liking what you do. Instead of looking at the ultimate goal and end outcomes, perhaps taking the one-day-at-a-time approach will help everything fall into place. In the meantime, work on deciding what you enjoy, and enjoy it. Instead of trying to figure out how our lives are supposed to be, maybe we should just live. Instead of comparing every aspect of our lives to that of our peers, maybe we should concentrate on our own individual journeys and on making them more meaningful to us.

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All those suffering from QLC can do is have fun, be nice, take risks and and work hard, and the rest should (will) work itself out. I’m yet to discover my purpose in life, but I refuse to stay stuck in this quick-sand of self doubt. So here I embark on a new lease of positivity and forthrightness, open to new experiences and willing to learn.

If you need a little faith that success is a gradual process, see what some of the most successful people in the world were doing in their early twenties here.

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