From A Narcissist with Low Self-Esteem
Everyone I know has called me a meme. In my dictionary, meme has two meanings. The first is an internet joke that appears on Twitter and Instagram. These memes are online photoshopped images or sometimes a tweet format – think of the “when you beat the… allegations” tweets that are circling the timeline right now. The second definition – the one I’m more concerned with – is as an archetype, a trope, a cliche.
When people call me a meme they mean my physicality, my entire being, my existence is one of a meme. That one meme of a twenty-two-year-old girl who lives near Myrtle-Wyckoff. The one who transplanted from a small city suburb outside of Los Angeles. The one who wanted to become a writer in New York because that’s what all great artists do. And my boyfriend is the counterpart meme that completes my own. The one that is tall, drinks PBR, makes music, and has brown curly hair.
In the end, everyone falls into some sort of meme stereotype. The social world wouldn’t exist without them. For my boyfriend, it’s the musty sadboi type while I am one of those sad alt/indie bitches who spends too much time online. It’s an interpretation of Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities. Anderson was concerned with the formation of a nation and the nationalism that follows, but his idea relates to more than just patriotism. The two terms – imagined and community – come together through the idea of kinship. This kinship is a socio-cultural construct where all members will never know, meet, or hear all of the other members, yet still feel connected by a common denominator. The members’ unity strives on understanding that someone out there, wherever they may be, is the same.
My imagined communities started once I joined Tumblr in sixth grade. I’ve gone through every internet phase since then. And I’m twenty-two. I wore American Apparel tennis skirts that one year before American Apparel died. (R.I.P she’s in my thoughts always). My first year in NYC, I tried to be minimalistic and granola adjacent like a Glossier girl. Then, I spent all of my money on UNIF during a Black Friday sale and joined the faux-edgy 90’s return. That summer I painted bleach onto the front part of my hair before wrapping the pieces in foil. My two-toned hair lasted until a little girl told me that I reminded her of Melanie Martinez. It was time to dye my hair black and I got a mullet. My blonde bangs were breaking off anyways. I started trying out eyeliner again, but it was impossible to draw a tiny, sharp wing on hooded eyes. The entire lids were covered instead. Platform Demonias made their way into my closet too. My emo roots – that my mom planted by blasting My Chemical Romance and The Used – were finally blossoming.
I thought I had finally found myself. I thought everything else was just a phase. I thought I was original. Slowly, my explore page changed. Tripp NYC, ripped fishnets, leg warmers, and smokey eyes. I knew what was happening, I’ve seen it before. The timeline from flower crowns, to soft grunge, to pale baby girl, to pink minimalism, to e-girl… to emo? I couldn’t escape the meme.
Or maybe the better word is trend. Google defines trend as a general direction in which something is developing or changing. The related words are fad and craze. An idea, an aesthetic, a style is created amongst certain individuals. They are a part of the same subculture, the same imagined community. There’s no real explanation for how it comes into reality, it’s just a gut feeling, like my inner pipeline to emo. Once that image becomes mainstream aka becomes a meme (hello girlies on TikTok), a broader audience is reached and the title trend could be given. Now that the internet is an extension of everyday life, memes are born and killed quicker than ever.
Back when I was in high school, only a few people were a part of the same internet residency as I was. Most people were normies and locals who liked standard popular culture. Forever 21, Facebook, Drake. Not to be annoying (still doesn’t make the statement less annoying), but I was different. And alone. I resorted to finding similar friends online. Marina and the Diamonds, jelly sandals, Urth Caffe. I desperately wanted a form of kinship, an imagined community. Once I started college, my Instagram timeline resembled my Tumblr feed. Instagram is for people I know in real life. Tumblr is for aesthetic inspiration. The fantasy was fading, my identity crisis started occurring more and more.
It’s one thing to see my style online, but another to witness identity theft right before my eyes. The people online don’t actually exist and live in a fake far away land that I’ll never encounter, but I walk the same streets as the people on Instagram. Others will have the chance to say they’re better than me. Skinnier, prettier, and nicer. There seems to be an ongoing competition with everyone, but I’m the only one that knows we’re competing. Still, my bitterness doesn’t make sense. I was waiting for this moment my entire life, but it’s not the wholesome community I always imagined. My main character's syndrome symptoms kicks in instead. I become sad, angry, and then sad again. Sad that I’m so easily offended, angry for believing I am the “blueprint,” and sad for being the terrible person who thinks this way.
I’m a self-proclaimed, self-aware meme and I wish I wasn’t. Every time I change my style, the world does as well. I go from this is the most me thing I have ever done to how the fuck did everyone start doing this. Yet my ideas aren’t new. They actually aren’t even mine. Nine times out of ten, I was inspired by Pinterest, Tumblr (duh), nostalgia and/or any hot girl. In the end, everything I do is an attempt to join an imagined community. I shape my personality, interests, and style on how I want to be perceived. My life performance is curated, yet I gatekeep things from other people. Especially from people I interact with in real life.
Still, I judge those who aren’t at my same meme level. Maybe the competition isn’t me vs my imagined community members, but rather me vs my crippling self-esteem. Identity crises only occur when there isn’t a strong sense of self. New trends may trigger the breakdown, complete chaos is unleashed because I don’t know who I actually am. When strangers online are similar, I feel seen. When people, in reality, are similar, I feel generic. Either way, my being is dependent on others. To an extent, dependency is necessary since identity overall is a social concept – yes I’m hinting at Benedict Anderson again. But, a personal foundation must exist as well.
The internet took away my individuality and I’m not sure how to get it back.