My Body, My Instagram, My Choice: How to Deal with Criticism

This morning I woke up with a sore throat. I don’t have mouthwash at home, nor have I ever bought it in my 40 years. I’d rather endure the pain than taste that fucking flavor of childhood filled with orders and insults again. Ignoring the sore throat, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, put on makeup, and stopped to see which of my attractive dresses I’d wear today for work. I chose the red one, short, out of spite. I always look brutal in it. I hurriedly dressed, put on red sandals, applied dark red lipstick, and left the house. Walking to work, my mind kept returning to the red mouthwash. Why the fuck am I thinking about this again? And this red dress, why today? I haven’t worn it in a hundred years... As soon as I stepped into the pit of the institution where I work, everything became clear. The looks from my colleagues explained everything and turned my subconscious into reality. Everything became clear all of a sudden. Fuck, I am that red mouthwash. Yes, I am Listerine, Lacalut, and Paradontax all together. And for the whole city. My city, where I live, work, and where I raise two daughters on my own. The city I fled to from my parents, sisters, ex-husband. From all the abusers in my life. Yet, this city became my new abuser. My mouth is being rinsed by anyone who wants. They even recognize me on the street. "There she is, the one from Instagram!" I sometimes hear behind me as I walk through the city. "What are you posting on Instagram, are you normal?", they occasionally ask me at work and at home. Is it possible that a private social media profile can cause such a commotion, and that I’ve become a target for both acquaintances and strangers, where anyone can shoot an arrow at me however they please? Some arrows hurt, I admit, they hit right at the center, but I was never one of those desperate people who cry for five days because they got only three likes on a picture they spent the whole day setting up. Maybe if they show a tit, they’ll get ten. I don’t care about likes, followers, or comments. I’ll post whatever I want, it’s my profile, I have the right to put my small tits, my shaved pussy, and my long legs on it. It’s my face, my body, who cares, block me, unfollow me, who gives a shit, no one is forcing you to watch... But everyone wants to watch. Especially those bitches from work. They share my pictures with each other, gossiping about them during breaks or in some bar in the evening. It’s become their soul food and a reason to hang out. "Hey, have you seen Tatjana’s new post on Insta... what a bitch... yeah, let’s talk about it tonight, same place, 7 p.m., okay?", one says to the other while passing in the smelly hallway of this miserable institution. Sometimes I even understand them, they’re all so unhappy, and this city is so dead that even I’m more interesting to them than their own lives. The only thing I don’t understand is how they don’t get tired of other people’s lives when all day long they watch and listen to just that – other people's life stories.

Have you ever felt like a "target" because of your choices or behavior on social media? How did you deal with it?

Let’s talk about this! How do you see the line between loyalty and control? Share your thoughts in the comments – maybe your experience will help someone find strength.

If this text resonated with you, share it with someone who might need it. Every story matters, every voice counts.

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