jealousy took over me

March 30th, 2022

The trees bloomed again, and the sunrise now, wakes me up. The greenery returns and with it, sparks of happiness. But not this morning. The terrible news got to me right at dawn, on my usual commute to work. My teenage bestie was becoming a successful artist.

I’ve always known I was meant to be an artist, but I never truly felt like one. Writing was satisfying but not rewarding enough. Fashion was risky and flamboyant in a conservative upbringing. Filmmaking was stressful and way too busy for my sanity. Photography was perhaps my dearest medium, but then again, Instagram selfies have taken over. And music, oh the music, it was intimidating. All of this on top of a stormy puberty, had me feeling like another victim of the romance built upon the struggling artist.

The trance of being a teenager has recently faded for me. It wasn’t until this year that I actually felt like an adult - and accepted it. I am financially independent, living with my boyfriend in a big city with a stable job. And sure, that sounds good enough but the responsibilities also rise. Nonetheless, I thought I was far away from the romance of the struggling artist that cursed me many years ago.

I’ve had many friends with impressive artistic skills and unmeasurable creativity. But when I surrounded myself with musicians, I felt jealous. I understood that the successful artist is a persona and that no other means of artistic expression would allow me to build a persona as strongly as music would. I started remembering miniscule moments in my life where I felt jealous of musicians. I don’t know why, they were just looked at as artists. Maybe it was the performing aspect or the amusement of putting up a party.

I have seen my friends on big stages, with crowds singing their lyrics. Making music videos with developed worlds in them. Taking pictures that complimented their sound, image and world building. I was jealous. I wanted artistic recognition, the praise for creating something relatable and prosperous. But most of all, I longed for personal fulfillment.

I sat on the train, on that morning that squeezed in between March and April. I scrolled through my socials and boom, a poster for a huge music festival with their name stamped on it. My blood boiled in discomfort. I couldn’t quite place the feeling or explain why I was feeling in such a way. I knew however, that there was a problem.

I spent the whole day at work distracted, thinking that maybe I wasn’t detail-oriented enough. That my soft skills were leading me in a different direction. That the social part of the business of art is what weakens me. The low self-esteem. Lack of motivation. Tiredness. The crippling world that we live in.

Why do I need the praise in order to consider myself a true artist? Why are my paintings that hang in the bedroom not enough for me? Why am I afraid to show myself to the world?

Besides everything, I’ve always known I was meant to be an artist. And as in many other aspects of my life, I’ve never needed to prove who I am to anyone. I feel it. As much as I feel the jealousy. And I hope, as I create and express, that I will be able to feel as fulfilled as my friends.

On my way back home, as the sunrise dripped purple, I grabbed my phone and sent my old friend a message. ‘Congrats on the big gig <3’

- Ms. Rodwell