You Should Break up with Yourself

"If you love it, let it go," when applied to the self.

There’s a fine line between self-care and self-obsession. The TikTok version of American Psycho irons his bedsheets, straps an infrared facemask to his glowing skin, and does pilates with more intensity than a pastor doing communion. His aforementioned bedsheets are, of course, white; same as his pants, walls, teeth, skin—a perfect asylum.

“I think you guys might be thinking about yourselves too much,” Jemima Kirke said in an Instagram-story-turned-meme in reponse to a follower who asked, “An advice to unconfident young women?” I wonder if this advice would send Patrick Bateman into a coma, or if it would feel for him the same way it did for me—uncanny, a wave of self-awareness mixed with deja-vu. The feeling that, yes, this is something you already knew deep down, but was in desperate need of a reminder.

I stopped doing my eyebrows and finally recognized myself, at least a little bit, for the first time in months. I thought about the phrases, “If you love it, let it go,” in conjunction with, “They’ve really let themselves go.” Similar phrases with opposite meanings, I used to think, but when applied to the self, they can go hand-in-hand. To let go means freedom and, in other ways, a lack of upkeep to an extent. 

Since I’ve been in my 20s, my limbs have grown stiff and tired, and the once energetic child in me has worn herself out. At first, I thought the solution would be to follow in TikTok Bateman’s steps: extreme self-care, but in the misguided name of self-love. Work and never play; self-isolate and convince myself I’m cocooning for an oncoming rebirth; shave my legs more, exfoliate every other day, dye my hair, spend rent money on skincare, wake up early for the gym when my body is begging me to rest. Don’t eat the cookie, sugar-free syrup in my coffee, try not to gag on its taste. Disguise a disorder in the name of—you guessed it—self-love.

The only constant in my life was, and currently is as I write this, burnout. As a result, I mellowed more than I thought possible for my normally eccentric self, which I only realized while on a short trip to my college town. I was craving a break from Los Angeles, from the busyness of my life and schedule, and needed a few days to simply be. Instead, I found myself caught in an old cycle I thought I’d broken free of—that second-guessing mentality of my teenage self, my identity ripped from me by none other than my own anxious thoughts. 

In that environment, I realized how drastically I’d changed since my last visit, just a few short months ago. Where I was once commonly described as someone who’s down for anything—a spontaneous late night, an early sunrise, skipping class for a hike to a waterhole—I was now a wallflower, an awkward dancer, only comfortable when I was certain that no one was looking at me. When asked why I hadn’t posted online recently, writings or otherwise, I’d blame it on a lack of inspiration and energy. Truthfully, what froze me in my tracks was a fear of being seen. I began to hate what I once craved the most—to know and be known—leaving me as a memory of who I was and could’ve been.

I wasn’t prepared for the changes of adulthood, nor how drastic these changes would be, and it left me feeling unsure and insecure in my skin. If the schedule that ChatGPT recommended for me couldn’t help me, would could? If the structured routine of TikTok Bateman won’t fix me, what will?

One day, I stopped doing my eyebrows and wondered what all this effort was for if not myself. I ran out of skincare products and didn’t repurchase them. I hid my haircutting scissors in a forgotten drawer. There are people that I no longer know, who no longer know me, who I will always love. One of these people pulled me aside recently, shortly after I began to “let myself go”, and exclaimed, “You look more like yourself than ever!” with excitement dancing in her eyes. At the time, the statement hit me as bittersweet, black coffee with a single cube of sugar. Now, I sit on a folding chair in Glendale, and I see it. I think I feel it, too. 

Every child seeks attention, and it’s what ultimately allows them to thrive. As I slowly grow into myself, I find myself drifting away from this urge. I used to want to be known more than loved; but now my small community grows around me, with me, and I wonder why I’d ever believe such a ridiculous notion. To be known is to be loved, yes, but by whom? Are you receiving the love you crave? Is the love worth the knowledge? 

An infrared face mask still sits in my Amazon cart, unbought, and I think I’ll block TikTok Bateman for good measure. I pack all the things from my past self in a box—my go-to slip dress when I was 21, my blue eyeshadow that never fit my features, my tweezers, and my best intentions—and ship it to wherever she may be, in whatever alternate universe where she thrives. I never got her new address, and I’ll never walk by her window again. When she receives the package, there won’t be any note in it to find; there’s nothing left to say.

Hi! Overcoming my new fear of being seen by trying to be seen again.

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✮ Paula ✮