Entry Five: Pretty, a Cautionary Filter

All my life, I looked up to the cautionary blondes—Marilyn and Anna weren’t warnings. They were reflections. A cautionary blonde with a blog. I recognized myself in the final edit--Pretty, a cautionary filter.

Thoughts & Confessions Turned into Verses

The hate came quick,
like paps in a parking lot:
“Talentless Whore.” 
“Dumb country Bimbo.” 
​“Not even special.”
Thanks for the headlines-
I starred in each shot.

My breakdown was well-lit.
Captioned. Cropped. Filtered just enough.
I didn’t fix my life,
I just picked the best angle of it.

The hate flashed quick,
like paps waiting outside the hotel.
“Where’s the book, slut?”
“Where’s the man?”
“Give up. You’re not meant for this.”

They wrote their words like breaking news.
I carried them into captions.

All my life, I looked up to the cautionary blondes
not as tragedies,
but as women who made endurance look glamorous.

Marilyn turned pain into poses.
Anna turned grief into gaze.
They let pretty answer the questions
no one really wanted the truth to,
or cared enough to ask
and if they did,
they used it to hurt them anyway.

They took pills to quiet the breaking.
Smiled through the cruelty.
Stumbled through flashbulbs.
And still—they performed.

I blurred the truth beneath a filter.
Called it content.
Called it art.
Called it enough.

Marilyn and Anna weren’t warnings.
They were reflections.

A cautionary blonde with a blog.

They wrote me in comments
the way they wrote them in headlines
cruel, consumed,
convinced they knew me.

I swallowed something to keep the noise quiet.

If they wanted a show,
I gave them one to remember.

I posed half-undressed,
not for lust,
but for leverage.
Because if they were going to watch me suffer,
they could at least admire the silhouette.

Some posts weren’t cries for help
they were soft threats.
Laced in longing,
framed in ache,
a body learning to speak
when no one listens to pain.

I knew what they wanted
a little scandal,
a little skin.
I gave them just enough to choke on,
then turned off access.

They never saw the disaster.
The backlash from those who knew me.
They never questioned the price.
Just clicked.
Laughed.
Scrolled on.

They never saved Marilyn.
They never saved Anna.
They watched them dissolve
then called it legacy.

They watched me too
just not as a person.
I recognized myself in the final edit--
Pretty, a cautionary filter.

​Penned in the Glow of the Mirror

I’ve always looked up to women like Marilyn and Anna--not just for their glamour, or recognition but for how they endured. I didn’t realize I was following in their footsteps until I started to stumble. By then, I was already well in.

Some nights, I couldn’t tell if I was chasing connection or just trying to outpace the loneliness. Everything blurred—the pills, the mirror, the flash of a pose. Hate and love shared the same scroll. And there I was, documenting my unraveling like it was art.

There was a time I believed if they hated me loud enough, it meant I mattered. When I first entered the machine of social media, I thought it would be love that found me. But the affection grew quiet as the cruelty grew loud.
The devil didn’t knock—he commented. And I let him dance with me in front of the camera, lips puckered, poses painted, performing pain like it deserved applause.

I didn’t even realize what was happening. The pills were prescribed—but I was slipping.
And everything began to accelerate. Life moved faster than I could hold it. My relationships were fraying. Trust fractured. Reality fogged. And still, I posed and wrote.

I wasn’t begging for attention. I was defending myself. Inventing stories, creating images, not to appear as some star—but to fight the void that screamed louder than any comment. Standing in front of the camera gave me something the pills couldn’t: control.

I was discovering myself through every click, through every image. It wasn’t vanity. It was oxygen.

​I wrapped it all up with positive words. Because that’s how I wanted others to feel. That’s how I wanted to feel. Like I belonged. Like I mattered. Like I wasn’t alone in the room, or on the screen. And maybe if I pretended hard enough, if I posted the light just right, someone would see through it and finally understand the part of me that was too exhausted to keep performing but it was the only thing I ever knew how to do.

Because when your pain becomes content, and attention becomes the distraction--you forget what’s real. You just focus on what gets saved to the camera roll. What causes a reaction. What looks just right. What words might make others feel seen—because though you’re being viewed, you don’t.

I thought if I posted through it, if I framed the breakdown well enough, maybe the applause would arrive. Maybe the love would return. Maybe I would finally feel the love. Maybe I could be saved.

But the kindness, the support, the people who read my words, hearted my photos, messaged me in the dark—they helped me through the worst of it. When I didn’t recognize myself, they reminded me I still mattered. And that mattered more than they’ll ever know.

I don’t remember when I stopped wanting to be saved. I just knew that if this was how it ended, I’d leave a lasting impression—a photo album worth looking at, and journals worth reading. I’d express myself the way I wanted.
Because at least that was art. And it was mine.

I got help in February 2022. And I haven’t looked back since. 

This entry is for the ones who smiled while swallowing pills, or did whatever it took to hide the pain. The ones who cried in their closets, but captioned the moment with a laugh—because we couldn’t let them see us break. The ones who turned grief into something tender, heartache into sparkle, and kept posting through the collapse.

We are survivors. We are the story. We are the main characters the envious villains, the heartless boys, the mean girls, and their minions tried to destroy.

So blow them a kiss. Strike a pose. Because now they know—this is your show. And you’re the star.
Xo,
Paul 

​And if you’re struggling—please ask for help. Don’t disappear behind a filter. Don’t let the scroll and the opinions of others take your voice. Don’t let their hate win. Don’t end the story the way I almost did. 

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