Envy Screams

I’m guilty of envy.

There. I said it.

The world we live in makes it so easy to peak behind  the curtain and take a good long perve.

Truthfully, I stalk people I don’t like much more than the people I love. I do the social media creep. Facebook, Instagram, Snap Chat, Pinterest, if you’re posting personal images somewhere,  I’m for sure keeping tabs.

It’s a sickness.

Obsessively feeling like I’m falling short of the bar. Comparing myself and my life to the snap happy lives of people I barely know. Leaving me feeling empty and dissatisfied by the life I’ve created.  Do I think I’m the only one doing it?


We’re all emotional cutters, nosey little peeping Toms.

76ffbffb5ce256107562205376e13487We’re looking for signs of a crack, reading between the lines and hoping for scandal. We want our friends to be happy, but not happier than us. We want to be at the very top of the success ladder so that we can occasionally extend a humble  hand to those less fortunate than ourselves. Hopefully that last category includes everybody we know.

So I’ve taken a hard look at the ugly that sits just beneath my skin. I’ve started hearing how disgusting that hateful voice truly is. “That baby isn’t even cute.” “She looks like a prostitute.” “He’s such an angry asshole” ” They got that on finance.” “I bet he cheats.” “She’s so bitter.” And it get’s louder. As it gets louder I feel worse and worse.

I’ve come to realize that, that voice is not a judgement of the people I’m going out of my way to stalk. It is very much a reflection of myself, of how I see myself. Of how I value myself, of my own worth.

*Cue fist shake and searing hot tears of shame.

What you say and think about others is what you actually think about yourself. Isn’t that ironic?

Water your own grass instead of looking over the fence. A sentiment I now take very seriously.

I refuse to be this person any longer. I refuse to keep myself prisoner to comparison. I want authenticity in my life and that means cleaning the slate.

I have wished I was somebody else more times than I care to admit.

I’ve pretended to be cooler, funnier, more confident. I’ve imitated sexiness, coldness, flirtatiousness. I have tried on various personalities based on what I thought I needed to be, all the while watching countless other people living their lives through the big window we call Facebook.

I felt like an impersonator.

I still have days when I longingly gaze at yet another beachy vacation photo, or feel my heart swell at the announcement of a new addition, and feel pain at public declarations of love.

And when that happens I remind myself to water my own grass. Because my happiness doesn’t exist over the fence.


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