I wonder how much of my time I wasted putting my Spotify on and off private session when I was 15. I used to click in and out of anonymity every time I changed genre from guilty to innocent, from indie to cringy. I was so worried about getting caught out listening to the hairspray soundtrack when I’d bigged myself up to be the manic pixie dream girl archetype, listening only to Foals and Bombay Bicycle Club and never ever strayed away from the Tumblr dream world. When I moved to uni I spent weeks being wary of what music could be heard through my walls, kept my voice quiet, left Taylor Swift on lock-down. Behind the scene of my playlists, I left my longest-held pleasures hidden behind my ‘cooler’ tastes. I’d forcefully roll my eyes, treat them all as ironic, I don’t realllly like them really.

I do. Pop music and musical theatre are my bread and butter, I don’t care anymore, I’ve gotta eat.

I don’t care anymore, and that’s not me saying I don’t have a big love for rock in my indie Cindy heart, but I’m letting my pleasures be completely innocent now. I’m refusing to cloak a pillar of myself, especially now that it’s getting bigger and stronger than ever for me and so many others. Pop is in the middle of a massive high point, I’m looking at people like Little Mix, Ariana, Shawn Mendes. Maybe it’s the new high for gay culture, becoming louder and prouder than ever as we see more and more LGBT+ people bursting into the mainstream. Or maybe it’s our uniting need for escapism in the face of scary politics, big life changes, and rising mental illness rates. Right now, I don’t want lyrics that are going to speak to me and remind me of my pain. While it may be the time for activism and awareness, we just don’t want that in our songs when we wake up. We want Lizzo, telling us we’re that bitch.

At least that’s what I want, recently it’s all I want. In the last year, my playlists have gone from one extreme to the other, as more and more songs have been traded out. And now, on an average day I wake up and put Lizzo straight on. In the shower I might go for the Waitress soundtrack, or Funny Girl. I wake into uni listening to my musicals playlist, and spent weeks sat in the library with headphones feeding me soundtrack after soundtrack from Amelia to Five Guys Named Moe. On the walk home, it might be Little Mix or maybe even Marilyn Monroe for old school camp. While I cook dinner, it might be old school Miley or Thank u, next. I rarely stray, I’ve become a bit scared to.

My bubble of theatre and pop is such a safety net. I know the story of Hamilton, it’s not going to suddenly plunge me into sad nostalgia, Ari won’t let me drown in heartbreak for too long till God is a Woman picks me back up. I’d been blessed and doomed with a massively sensory memory; I remember everything through clothes and songs, and within seconds I can be back somewhere I’m trying not to be. I’m the classic case of losing albums to exes and having to swear off songs forever; my bubble is safe from that. It allows me security and escape, disappearing into the chorus when I feel I need to. It’s become such an important part of my self-care and recovery routine, so I’ll no longer call that guilty. At this point in my life, the last thing I want is my music taste to feel like an attack, I want my Spotify to be a safe space so I can just zone out and bop alone. I don’t need my morning boogie to confront me or trigger me, I want it to affirm me! Build me up! Make me feel like 10/10! And I wasn’t getting that from Arctic Monkeys. And neither are a lot of my friends as our pre-drinks playlists and been swapped for Spotify’s 80s or Divas playlists, or the classic Lipsync For Your Life playlist. It says a lot that our gym playlists, the soundtrack to making ourselves feel good, are full of mainstream cheesy pop now; we just want high energy, high confidence tracks. Sue us.

I haven’t sworn off all other genres. I’m still committed to my new music Friday routine of listening to all the new albums, digging for new artists and songs, opening to taste test everything. I still go to gigs regularly, still regularly throw fuel on the fire with some sad songs. But what I need right now is the comfort of my safe songs, of the characters I know I can softly fall into, and the words I know won’t hurt me. And it feels good, dancing around my flat in my underwear while Charli XCX hypes me up.

I don’t want the hard edges each and every day. Right now, I want soft bubble gum pop with a side of cheese, and I don’t care if it’s cringe. I love it.

Despite working in social media, reading all the books and listening to all the podcasts; I still fall for the Instagram lie. Even though I know it’s not true, from a quick scroll you can easily convince yourself that everyone else has perfect skin, more money, and better mental health than you. It’s the cliché that Instagram is our highlight reel, we don’t post pictures of ourselves ill or crying, and I understand. There’s something beautiful about a curated feed, filled with memories of the best times and easily deletable if the image goes sour. And at the worst of times; there’s something so comforting about being able to hide it all so easily. It’s a deception we’re all guilty of.

One of my favourite influences, bridging this gap between appearance and emotion, is Caroline Calloway. She recently did this thing where each Instagram story had 2 captions; what she would usually caption it, and how she actually felt. The prior shared knowledge and sentiments of joy claiming her day was beautiful, she loved her outfit etc, but the later told a different story of her social anxiety at her events and fears that no one care about her nor her content. We always choose the prior. Not only do we worry that no one constantly wants to hear our worries and sadnesses, but we also don’t constantly want to write them. But I worry that I haven’t been writing them enough.

I’ve been considering it a lot recently. Each time I fall for the façade and believe a person must be wholly happy and fine because their Instagram is all sunshine, I worry more and more about my own online presence.

This year has undoubtedly been the worst mental health year of my life, but my Instagram doesn’t show that, at all. Though I don’t claim to be an influencer, at all, bumping into girls in clubs that tell me they like my blog or Instagram has become increasingly uncomfortable as I’ve talked less, felt a widening distance between myself and my screen self.

Since last mental health awareness week, in May 2018, to now I’ve struggled a lot with depression, anxiety, relationships, body image; a whole host of things. But the opportunities and achievements of the year have painted over it all as burlesque and internships hid the bad stuff behind it;

During my time in London, I was eating too little and probably drinking too much. I moved to London 10 days after a breakup and I simply didn’t deal with it. I spent the summer having fun, but severely suppressing my feelings and spiraling into self-destruction, bringing up old habits as I suffered a mental health crisis but wasn’t willing to admit it. Without friends looking after me and my job to keep me busy, I probably wouldn’t have survived.

My idyllic flat shots hid my crippling fear of being alone and terrible loneliness when I moved back to Sheffield, leading me to give far too much energy to bad friendships and bad relationships and not enough to myself and my recovery.

Around this time was when I felt that I had suddenly gained LOADS of weight as my dysmorphia constantly told me I looked huge. I almost pulled out of every single burlesque show this year; hating my body, hating the toxic environment I’d found myself in, and over-sexualising myself as a way to protect my feelings from being hurt again. I hallowed myself out and only cared about my appearance, despite preaching about burlesque being an act of self-love and body confidence.

Mantras became a joke. Each week I’d proclaim a new dedication to recovery and an end to my self-destructive habits, each week I’d fail to take it seriously. Around this point was also when I decided to come off my anti-depressants, feeling like they were doing nothing but numbing me, I also got dumped by a boy and a friend, partly due to my denial of how much I was struggling.

I spent my New Years Eve alone, writing this positive blog post half an hour after crying in the bath, terrified of my depression following me into 2019.

I bleached my hair in a panic, needing a big change to try to snap myself out of my rut (the rut being depression AKA a thing that no amount of hair dye can just pull you out of). It was also around this time that I attempted to get therapy and got turned away by my uni counseling service.

My birthday was scary and sad. As much as I wrote about harnessing change and being excited about the future, I wasn’t and I’m still struggling with it. A year ago my life was totally different, and I’m terrified for what might happen next with the bad voice in my head telling me it will only get worse and holding onto every bad word, every bad thing that’s happened in the last 365 days.

I’m without a doubt the most sensitive person I’ve ever met. I see everything as a reflection on myself, beat myself up over ridiculously minor failings, hold onto everything too tightly. Even though I share my achievement online, I can’t celebrate myself. I’m never satisfied with myself, always finding something to criticise or be sad about as my depression whispers in my ear that I don’t deserve the good.

Instagram is a double-ended sword. While it’s nice to scroll back and look through the achievements of the year, it hides the reality, creating an unrealistic image for both followers and myself as I compare myself to this edited and crafted image of me. I’m not saying I lie or that this year has been awful, but that I’ve simply struggled with my mental health as so so many others do. And maybe I should talk about it more rather than feeling guilty for being unable to take an image of perfect recovery because it simply doesn’t exist, especially not here. Behind every single image and caption is the reality of life, regardless of mental illness. No one is always all good so check on your friends, check on yourself, regardless of how great their lives are looking online and make sure you’re not hiding your struggles behind VSCO filters.

In this last week I have practiced self-care, I’ve looked after myself, fed myself, journaled and meditated, but then I’ve spent the last half an hour struggling over which picture to post, zooming in and out on my face and over-analysing. From May last year, I have made a lot of progress. I feel better, but that doesn’t mean I am better or that I ever will be. Recovery is the good and the bad just as life is the good and the bad, Instagram is only the good. I must remember that. I must keep trying to find the balance.

Last week I saw a pregnant influencer promote skinny tea.

Not only is the skinny tea unsafe for pregnant women, with the brand saying so on their website, and not only is it dangerous for pregnant women to really lose weight let alone lose weight by ingesting god knows what that will pretty much just make you shit out the entire contents of your tummy. But her reaction to the inevitable criticism was wildly ignorant.

‘Your fuckin daft if u think an eating disorder can come from a post like mine’

Trust me I’m all for making your money, and I think influencer marketing can be a really beautiful and powerful tool that allows people to make money for their personal brand and work. But this isn’t an example of that. Skinny teas and really any kind of weight loss supplement are the darkest corner of diet culture. They’re poison masquerading as science, promising limitless results without any equal discussion of side effects or problems. And you really think these influencers got the body they have through sipping on some tea? Most of them are fitness influences or have openly had (and often promote) cosmetic procedures, and most of their photos are filtered and edited. I know this, you probably know this, but the effect that images like that have on young women is statistically proven. It’s simple; weight loss adverts have a negative effect on mental health and body image. So, the claim that this post won’t have an effect, that it won’t trigger negative patterns and possibly lead to an eating disorder, is ignorant. And in 2019, we don’t have room for that.

In a similar act of carelessness. This is Boohoo’s idea of a plus size/curve model

…what. According to this image, I’m plus-sized. Maybe even more than that. Standing as I do, as a 10/12/14 (depending on the brand and garment) my collar bones don’t pop out like that. My jaw couldn’t cut glass like that. My cheeks are nowhere near that hallow, and my legs would stretch those shorts. This woman, though beautiful, is not plus sized. I see a tweet almost daily about this, people are angry at rightly so because all people truly want when purchasing is representation. We want to see ourselves, imagine ourselves looking and feeling good in these clothes we give our money to, not to come online only to be confronted by an image that does nothing but say that this brand thinks we’re not the right shape, not beautiful enough for the clothes they’re selling us. Once again, it’s careless. 

And once again, we don’t have room for that.

I believe in 2019 our brands have to think. Specifically, they have to think about 3 things:

The hill I’m willing to die on is that if a brand isn’t being thoughtful, they’re being toxic. 

Carelessness about these things shows a care for nothing but one thing; money.

I’m not ignorant to the machine of business. I know brands need and want money, and any big change in marketing or models can be a risk. But all we do is prove the success of this risk. Making people feel included and good, it pays off. And it’s so easy; see ASOS using a girls image on their website after some boy slagged her off in their dress, Missguided’s Keep On Being You campaign, brands like Aerie who are committed to no to photoshop and yes to showing all bodies, the praise and thanks brands get simply for showing and considering different abled bodies. Why? Because people want to be seen and heard and spoken to. Fashion is on a beautiful curve upwards as consumers hold brands up to higher standards, and demand to feel nothing but good about their purchases. And the result is a purge; brands that aren't bothered will get left behind. 

If you’re not speaking to people, you’re using them. Brands that don’t care disregard every second of work a person has done to be able to purchase that garment. They don’t care about the vulnerability of ordering new clothes; the possible anxieties and worries that someone could go through at the hands of small sizing or uncertainty of fit. They don’t care about making sure everyone feels included in fashion; the one thing that unites us all in the power to present and experiment with ourselves. They’re saying they don’t care about us feeling good, don’t care about our bodies and shy away from the responsibility of the effect that might have. If they don’t care, who will? Who should?

In 2019 we have to care. With ever-rising mental health statistics, a state of climate emergency, continued fight for visibility for so many marginalised people and bodies, no one can bury their head in the sand anymore. And those that do, won’t hear the parade as we leave them behind, as we unfollow them, stop buying from them, decide to give our money and our likes to someone else who will talk to us and treat us like humans.

My career aspirations remain the same, and each scroll on Instagram fuels the fire; each tap to unfollow is getting more and more aggressive, I’m hoping for a change before I break the screen.