The autopsy of self love

I love the curve of my breasts and the shape of my nipples. I love the mole on my face and the birth mark on my pubic bone. Is that vulgar or Does saying this count as self love? Sorry for not answering your phone calls. I was exercising “Self love” dear best friend. Don’t mind me, I was spamming my social media with #self love while we both know I was barely functioning on three hours sleep, anxiety and shit load of caffeine.

Because nothing says self love like forcing a smile in front of a camera. “I am a confident woman. I am in charge.” I say to myself standing in front of my mirror. By now my own mirror has grown weary of my performance even my reflection has started to roll her eyes. But who cares as long as I chant my so-called self affirmation louder than the self doubt of every life decision I have ever made.

Then I shall stand in front of my camera once again with an elegant yoga pose. “Connecting with my future self” will be the caption while ignoring the existential crisis accompanying me in bed like a lover that has attachment issues. 

And so when I am done with my online shenanigans I push everyone out to avoid conversation, responsibilities and commitments while I make a big deal out of how I need a “ME” time. “I need a break” is becoming a new mantra. Constant self care days masquerading my laziness and possible deteriorating mental health. Then I write about my journey on cutting toxic people out of my life(great let’s see how you plan to cut yourself out of your life), add a little more detail about my “Authentic” struggles that will get me a couple of “mtsm” or if i am lucky your typical “You are a goddess”.

Then I follow that up with another narration of the healing journey. My trauma responses and how I am not perfect while my inflated ego constantly reminds me the need to be perfect is essential to my very existence. Act imperfect, join in the “Let’s normalize human imperfection” bullshit but never ever appear anything other than PERFECT(as if that is humanly possible but hey maybe I would be the first one to come close to being perfect). 

 “Self love”, “Self worth”, “Self discovery”...etc. So many words that start with “Self” all in the name of accepting yourself as you are. So you don’t become your own enemy or to make peace with yourself because at the end of the day you only got you. You spend most of your time with yourself dreading who you are so self love makes it easier to coexist with who you really are. The concept of self love is easier said than done. How does one love oneself?

I for one have found self love fucking indigestible. But I must not say that out loud for that is too depressing. Don’t be a debbie downer, a party pooper, don’t be a Boomer! I love my hair, the shape of my nose and my short fingers. Is this self love? My worth depends on the amount of productivity I have. If I write something or be creative in my work I get in a really good mood and feel like life is once again worth living. And on days where I am stuck to form a single sentence and I have a staring contest with my computer, waiting for the cursor to move on its own; my keyboards to move on their own in a magical way, Kind of like Harry Potter when he asked the empty notebook and the book wrote him back.

Well I do declare, Self-love?(in my fake southern accent) a placebo we gulp down to numb the unbearable ache of existence. We craft elaborate performances of “healing” while the truth festers beneath: we’re all just trying not to drown. We plaster smiles over hollow eyes, slap on hashtags to hide the fractures, and tell the world, “I’m thriving!” when we’re barely holding it together. It's a theater. We play our roles, hoping no one notices how close we are to falling apart.

But then again none of it matters. Not the affirmations, not the curated posts, not the empty declarations Because deep down, we know the universe doesn’t care about our self-discovery journeys. Life isn’t waiting with a pat on the back for our brave steps toward “self-love.” It grinds us down just the same relentless, cold, indifferent.

So why keep acting like we’re not miserable? Why pretend the darkness doesn’t seep in when we’re alone, that the weight of our flaws and failures doesn’t crush us? Maybe because admitting is too terrifying to face. We’d rather live the performance than confront the emptiness. Because if we stopped pretending, what would be left? 

Just us, staring into the void, realizing that we are, and always have been, utterly alone. It's all a fleeting distraction in a universe that doesn’t care. And maybe, just maybe, the saddest truth of all is that we’ll keep clinging to it anyway, because what else is there? Just us, the emptiness, and the brutal honesty we dare not speak.