Looking through my stash of clutter, I stumbled upon my 12-year-old self’s diary.
Written amid the mask-clad, sanitizer-soaked reality of 2020, its yellowed pages hold my unfiltered musings. Rereading the entries from my small yellow notebook, where I mindlessly scribbled my thoughts out almost four years later, makes me recoil in distaste for I knew that beneath the surface, they were not mere scribbles; they are echoes of a fabricated identity, one born from mistaking online trends for lived experience. It was the reflection of someone chronically immersed in the online universe—who one day decided that it was “aesthetically cool” to be “depressed” online.
Once veiled in stigma, popular media gradually humanized mental illness: affirming us that “it is okay to not be okay.” To experience different emotions is fine, and we are assured that our feelings are valid. However, the line between destigmatization and romanticization blurs; thus leaving us to question if it trivializes the subject and ask, “When is it NOT okay to not be okay?”
From 2020 to early 2023, I sought refuge online from the busy offline world. I lurked on TikTok and X (then known as Twitter); the latter became a canvas for my emotional rants and breakdowns. My humor morphed into self-deprecating jokes, poking fun at “my mental state” and how I wished I was no longer living for every inconvenience I faced. I gravitated toward artists who were symbols of a melancholic tragedy, spanning from the likes of Fiona Apple and Lana Del Rey who is notorious for a pretty-when-you-cry aesthetic; to grunge bands like Soundgarden and Alice in Chains who assured that it was fine to feel nihilistic and wretched. Then came HBO’s “Euphoria” where I saw myself in the protagonist—a 16-year-old teenager with clinically diagnosed illnesses using illegal substances to cope with her life.
This narrative isn’t solely about me and what I liked over the pandemic; it’s about how these stories provided solace. Media portraying sadness, melancholia, and neurodiversity may become cathartic. As I found solace in media that emphasized I am not alone in my battle with my “mental state,” I found myself subconsciously reinforcing the sadness that the media I loved radiated. I romanticized my sadness as a coping mechanism, and I consumed media that did the same. It was as if everything I did and liked was all to fulfill the desire to be “tragically beautiful.”
This may also be the case for others, primarily teenagers, who spend majority of their time plugged into the internet and social media. Traditional media often fails to represent the full spectrum of human emotions, particularly negative ones. So when we encounter online content that expresses the sadness and isolation we hide from the real world, it feels instantly relatable. We gravitate toward the familiar, clinging to the validation that everyone feels this way, even if they won’t admit it. But as popular culture romanticizes sadness, painting it as an “aesthetic” badge of honor, it creates a dangerous narrative. It subtly encourages some to willingly embrace pain, believing it grants them a unique, desirable identity. I may be one of the examples of people who aren’t mentally ill, but I saw being tragically beautiful like a damsel-in-distress as something desirable, and so I acted like I was mentally ill when in reality, I just wanted to be sad because it was “aesthetic.”
As I decided to dwell on my “sadness,” I sought a community online that would validate my sadness. There went echoes of “relatable” posts referring to their mental state with subthemes of self-harm and depression. Note that in that context and within that digital community, there was minimal actual assistance—just a chorus of shared experiences echoing a collective “same!” It was a supportive community not in the sense that they would support you to get better; rather, they only reinforced what you were feeling. There was no path to recovery or actual encouragement to get better. In these “cathartic communities,” sadness was encouraged.
Social media is an echo chamber, wherein one may become too accustomed to one’s view and prevent one from being exposed to various viewpoints that could expand and challenge one’s knowledge of mental health.
It is okay to not be okay. There is no doubt about that idea. It merely boils down to how we deal with our sadness that makes it “not okay.” This doesn’t mean we should shun “tragically beautiful” art or online communities altogether. There is undeniable value in shared experiences and emotional expression. However, we must cultivate awareness of the potential pitfalls. Online spaces can easily become echo chambers, reinforcing our limited perspectives and hindering our understanding of genuine mental health struggles. The key lies in striking a balance.
Accepting the spectrum of human emotions, including sadness, is crucial, but romanticizing pain or seeking validation through manufactured suffering only perpetuates harmful stereotypes and impedes true healing.
We should move beyond the “aesthetic” of anguish and embrace a nuanced understanding of mental health, both online and offline.
—————-
Synesmuni (pen name), 16, is a senior high school student at Liceo de San Pedro with a keen interest in writing and humanities.