TikToxic

A rant about how I let the internet take a toll on me

When I was 27, I did something I never should have done. I would say I didn’t mean to, but I did. It was one hundred percent self-inflicted, however, it wasn’t entirely my fault. And as much as I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson three years later, the sad truth is that I have not. Let me explain.

It was the middle of a global pandemic, the one that forced me to postpone my wedding and sent me into the worst depression of my life (more on that here and in my eventual memoir). Stuck inside and sick of spending my days staring at Zoom and my nights crying myself to sleep, I turned to this new, mysterious app. It had everything you could ever want: fun dance moves, cute animals, funny memes, recipes, workouts, outfit inspiration, you name it. I was quickly sucked into its depths, scrolling endlessly for hours on end, consuming video after video as a way to pass the time and pacify myself.

Despite working in social media and being fully familiar with algorithms, I sent all caution to the wind. I needed this outlet, this escape. I didn’t care that the more time I spent on the app, the more it learned about me and therefore the more it could keep me there. I walked directly – and willingly – into its trap, which is how I found myself on SkinTok.

SkinTok, for those who aren’t familiar, refers to the “side” of TikTok dedicated to, you guessed it, skincare. This affectionate nickname downplays – nay, disguises – its insidious nature. It’s a place you end up when you’ve interacted with one too many skin-related videos that now dictate your personalized algorithm. For me, it’s the place where you’re handed a mirror and quickly shackled to it. You start seeing all of these beautiful people with immaculate skin, their cheeks plump with collagen, their pores invisible. How do they have that? you start to wonder, as you actively continue carving out your under eyes from exhaustion and blue light exposure. You don’t have to wonder long, because don’t worry, darling, they’ll tell you. In fact, they’ll show you each of their products, walk you through their routine, and maybe even make a whole series of videos about them. Some of them are estheticians and dermatologists, they’re the real deal and they’ll offer you all of their secrets on a silver platter – for free! Isn’t that wonderful?

It is, except it isn’t free.

In fact, it comes with a hefty price tag – one that affects both your wallet and your mind. Despite having decent skin that I had received compliments on since I was 15, I was soon brainwashed into thinking that it wouldn’t stay that way. Now that I was *gasp!* twenty-seven, I should no longer be using the tried and true line of products I’d been on since I was in early high school. No, I was edging on *double gasp!* thirty, i.e. middle age according to the skincare world. In fact, I was going to start wrinkling any minute if I wasn’t already. Not to mention I was getting married soon, and everyone knows you need to look perfect on your wedding day because those photos will last forever, blah, blah, blah. You can see where my spiral started.

Soon enough, my Amazon and Target shopping carts were full. The beauty (no pun intended) of the pandemic meant that I could order and try all these products without having to step into a store. How convenient! I could age backward in the privacy of my own home, my own cocoon, and emerge back into normal life post-pandemic a beautiful, baby-faced butterfly. Little did I know, being inside would soon become my saving grace.

Reality hit me right in the, well, face. I started breaking out. It felt like one of those “be careful what you wish for” moments.

Here I was trying so hard to appear young that it became exactly what I got. I looked thirteen again, warts and all.

Luckily I didn’t have to show my face anywhere but Zoom, and even then, there were filters for that. I still, however, had to face myself every day in the mirror, my now personal hell. The more I looked, the more I hated what I saw and the more anxious and stressed I became, which, you guessed it, only amplified the problem. I began researching adult acne, digging myself into an even deeper TikTok hole. I even bought a literal boatload of spearmint tea because I read it helped. Did I drink it? You bet. Did it help? Not sure. Do I still have a billion more boxes of it that my husband wishes didn’t take up so much of our pantry? Sure do.

I was already anxious out of my mind, wondering if the world was ever going to go back to normal and if I’d ever get to marry my best friend, and now I’d made myself look and feel like shit. I panicked. Once things started to open up again, I consulted a dermatologist and threw even more money at medical facials. It helped a marginal amount, but not enough to ease my mind. My wedding was approaching (my now-husband and I decided to ditch the big, white wedding and elope instead – more on that here and in the aforementioned memoir), and I needed a solution. So what did I do? You guessed it: I went back on my old skincare routine. And you know what? It worked. Because of course it did. Why? Because nothing was even broken in the first place. I had nearly fourteen years of proof in the pudding that it worked for me.

But do you want to know the saddest part? I turned thirty last year and got amnesia as my gift. Despite my previous experience of switching skincare routines, the years on TikTok letting these skincare strangers infiltrate my psyche got to me. I found myself looking into estheticians the minute I blew out my birthday candles. Rather, I proceeded to use those flames to gaslight myself. Now that I really was thirty, there was no way I should still be on this affordable, manageable, clearly tried-and-true routine. If I really wanted to prevent any sort of further aging, I needed to consult the pros.

At almost thirty-one and who knows how many hundreds of dollars in the hole, I’m back at square one. I’m fighting breakouts and texture, now in places I’ve never had it before, and I have to live life like a normal person post-pandemic. To add to the fun, I’ve become a barre instructor, so now part of my job is not only staring at myself in a mirror, but public speaking and performing while I do it. You can imagine the havoc this wreaks inside my mind and how it manifests on my face. Sure, I’m my own worst critic, that much we know, but I can’t help feeling like my skin has gotten worse, and all I’ve got to show for it is my credit card bill and the lack of space in my bathroom cabinet. (I apparently can’t help myself from venting about it on the internet either.)

The rational, more kind-hearted part of my brain has been suppressed for a while, but she’s still there. I hear her every now and then. She asks me why I let the internet dictate how I feel about myself, why I let it make me think I’m broken when there’s nothing to fix. She asks me why - if it causes me so much anguish - do I let it take both my money and my self-worth.

I have a few guesses, but they’re all things we already know:

1. The exposure to airbrushed, filtered media for the entirety of my life has warped the way I see myself.

2. I’m focusing too much on how things look versus how they feel.

3. I spend too much time on TikTok.

I don’t know the real answer (or maybe I’m not yet ready to – pun intended – face it), so I’ll pose another question: Should I just go back on Proactiv?