WitchTok

@iamimage

On average, I spend 58 minutes a day on TikTok. Of those, I would guess 16 minutes are spent on cat videos. The other 42 minutes consist of some comedy, and of course kittens, but mostly WitchTok videos. So it was no surprise that late Sunday afternoon, after bullshitting my work for the upcoming week, that I turned to TikTok to fill my boredom (as we have all been doing in quarantine- don’t lie to yourself). I scrolled past the conspiracy theories, the despicable D’Amelios, and singing videos before I came across WitchTok. Though with skepticism and lack of trust, those spell casting, sage burning, spirit summoning TikToks bring comfort, and that day, enough intrigue to drive over to a magic store a mile or so away. Would hematite solve the problems that Zoloft couldn’t? 

The young woman perched at the front counter had enticing curled hair that seemed to swallow the smoke of slow-burning incense. Her body was decorated in intricate tattoos, and overly ornamented with jewelry, like a shrine. She looked over as I picked around the crystals, reading the description cards, hoping to find one that read: Associated with the Pussy and Beauty Chakra, which enables hotness, sexiness, and overall personal magnetism. But no, no Pussy Chakra or secret hotness crystal. The woman, perhaps having some witchy intuition of my disappointment, asked if I needed help. Her voice was even more calming than the meditative sounds, and so fitting to her person it seemed as though she hadn’t even spoken at all, and her communication was through some power of telepathy. This place was already feeling mystical. I spread the crystals I had collected onto the counter for her to see, asking if any would be of service in finding someone to love me. She picked through, giving me confirmation that my selection was “good for beginners,” but that there were no crystals for finding someone to love you. As I started to accept my eternal loneliness, she interrupted. 

“Babe, you can’t get a crystal to love yourself. You know what I mean? Like yeah, you can get Amazonite, or Rose quartz, and you can sit around waiting for love, but it won’t work.” She let the crystals roll in her hands, clicking against her rings in a soothing hypnosis. 

“It works when you already have a basis. My beautiful, if you are looking for confidence, you don’t love yourself, and how are you going to find love if you can’t love yourself? Look, you can’t find love without knowing how fucking amazing you are. You gotta know your self-worth, your beauty, smarts, how just fucking incredible and special you are. And it’s the best. It’s the best love you will ever experience. And you’ll just get addicted to loving yourself. Because it’s you! And why would you not love yourself? I didn’t know how to love myself for so long and I kept getting in shit relationships. I’m not saying it’s my fault, but fuck, I didn’t know what I deserved. Then you’ll know how to be loved, but you won’t be needing it, because you are giving it to yourself.” 

 Cheesy bullshit? Maybe. However, a true saleswoman would have pointed to some pink gem and claimed its entrancing powers. So, maybe she wasn’t bullshitting me. 

I have tried to be confident, really wanted it, and in some short moments even attained it, but self-confidence is scary. I fear that someone might look at me and see my flaws before I have spoken them first. To show that I see my flaws. Because if they are looking on in judgement, my confidence would be embarrassing. And most do look on in judgement, because we see a confident woman and we are told they are a threat, or become jealous of what they have, but more so their power in confidence. So my self-inflicted judgements protect me from the impending cruelty of onlookers.  Nevertheless, here I was at this crystal shop, listening to an edgy-Hermione-Granger-cashier tell me to love myself, and desperately  wanting to protest: my calves being too big, tits too small, smarts unimpressive, and smile uninteresting. Did I really believe that, or did I only want her reassurance in the falseness of those claims, if she were to refute them? And what would come of reassurance? Maybe a bit of gained confidence, but never fully realized. No matter how many times someone can voice their opinions of me against my criticisms, it will never be enough. I will never know if they are being sincere, or if most share their opinions. And why should I put weight into other’s opinions? I am my own, so why would I care about thinking from others, and instead just love myself!? Well clearly if it was that fucking easy, I wouldn’t think twice about some frat boy leaving me on read. 

Over the past semester, I found myself at an all time high of seeking validation of my own self worth. I felt the need for constant reassurance that I was worth someone’s time and attention. It was no surprise after my breakup (which felt more like a harsh rejection) that I turned to others for reassurance, because if someone else could value me, maybe I was valuable… or better yet, I could value myself. Hookups, with mostly douchey boys, who talk too much, and above all fear feelings and impregnation, filled my self-doubt (the only thing they could fill) in hopes of a self-confidence boost. While their interest, feigned or realized, did give me some immediate high, it never withstood, nor was it worth the poking of pencil dicks that came with their Napoleon complexes. 

So instead, I am trying to love myself. Do I still rely on my self-depreciation for my comedic voice? Yes. Do I still ask my friends their opinions of my worth? Of course. But I am trying. I am trying not to only look for the flaws when I stand naked in the mirror. And when I journal, writing sentences that start with “I am,” and what I hope to be. And maybe I will start to believe those statements to be true.

Not the crystals, but going to the crystal shop, had given me motivation to be confident (this is your after-school-special ending). While I am the only one who can truly grant myself love and acceptance, the hippie cashier convinced me to do so. I am not sure why her words finally forced me to confront the ugliness of my self hatred, but without the perhaps fateful prompting of WitchTok, I would not have begun to pursue myself. 

Cheers, to trying not to hate myself.

By Devin Yadav

Call Me By Your Name obsessed, wannabe Bowie groupie, and off-brand irl Moana