Estep
Iron
- Joined
- Jul 21, 2024
- Posts
- 89
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- 81
Growing up, I didn’t give my looks a second thought. There was no reason to. Life was about enjoying the small, silly things—school, friends, the carefree simplicity of childhood. But when I was around eleven, acne started showing up on my skin. It was like my face turned on me, small bumps and angry red spots that made me feel exposed and imperfect. I’d pop them obsessively, hoping to make them disappear, but all that did was leave scars and make my insecurity grow. Little by little, my reflection became something I resented.
One day, scrolling through TikTok, I stumbled upon a video by Dylan Latham, talking about skincare and this concept called “Looksmaxxing.” I’d never heard the term before, but it stuck with me. The idea that you could “maximize” your looks, that there was a formula to looking better—it was like a lifeline, a secret I hadn’t known I needed. I started watching more videos, sinking into this world of advice, hacks, and transformation stories. It became something more than just a passing interest; it became part of who I was.
I began idolizing models: Chico, Jordan Barrett, Sean O’Pry—all of them with their perfect features and magnetic confidence. They seemed untouchable, like living art. I wanted that. I wanted to walk into a room and feel like I was someone people noticed, someone admired. I started buying every product I could find, from cleansers to serums to things I didn’t even understand. I followed the routines religiously, convincing myself that I was becoming someone attractive. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a glimpse of that transformation, like I was finally becoming something closer to the ideal I’d built up in my mind.
But then, the more I watched, the more the cracks in my self-assurance began to show. I found my way onto forums like looksmax.org, where people analyzed every detail of appearance in brutal, clinical terms. Reading those posts made me hyper-aware of every single flaw. I began to notice things about my face that I’d never seen before. It was like a switch had flipped, and suddenly all I could see were imperfections. My friends were no longer just friends; they became standards to measure myself against. I’d analyze their faces in ways that made me feel like a stranger, even to myself.
By the time I was fifteen, I was deep in the rabbit hole. Every reflection, every photo, became an exercise in self-critique. I picked myself apart with a precision that was almost surgical. My nights were filled with a dark envy, comparing myself to people online who seemed to have it all together, who had the looks I craved. I hated what I saw in myself, and I hated that I felt so obsessed with something I couldn’t change.
And then the thoughts started creeping in, whispers of something darker. I’d think about ending it all, about finding a way to escape this endless, suffocating loop. But my faith held me back; I’m a Christian, and that belief kept me tethered, kept me from crossing that line. Yet even with that anchor, I still felt lost, drowning in my own reflection.
The girls in my class? I couldn’t stand them. I felt like they were mocking me, making comments about my appearance as if they saw right through my efforts. They didn’t understand how much it hurt. Their words burrowed under my skin, feeding the anger and self-loathing growing inside me. I turned to extreme measures to “fix” myself. I discovered bonesmashing, thumb-pulling, anything that promised even the slightest change. I’d press against my palate, trying to reshape my maxilla, desperate to create a more defined look. It felt insane, but I was trapped in this need to fix what I thought was broken.
Every night, I’d lie awake, wishing I could be what they call a “High Tier Normie”—someone attractive enough to be noticed, to be valued. But I felt like a “Low Tier Normie” instead, barely average. The label haunted me, made me question everything I did, every way I presented myself to the world. I considered suicide again, but fear and faith held me back. I hated the way I looked in photos. No matter how much I tried to change or mask it, I couldn’t escape the face staring back at me, a face that never seemed to measure up.
As I spiraled deeper, I drowned myself in more Looksmaxxing and Blackpill videos, each one a reminder that I was chasing something forever out of reach. People would compliment me sometimes, call me handsome, say I looked like a model. But to me, they were lying. I felt nothing but resentment. I hated them for saying things that felt empty, for making me question my own reality. The lies felt like cruelty, and I hated them for it.
The worst was the buccal fat in my cheeks. It drove me insane. Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was the roundness in my face, an insult to the sharp, defined features I wanted. It became an obsession, a constant reminder of everything I wasn’t. My appearance consumed every thought, every moment, until I felt like I was drowning in it. Now, it’s all I think about. I feel like everyone is looking at me, seeing how ugly I am. I don’t want to turn my head, because then they’ll see my recessed maxilla, the flaw that’s become my prison.
I’m stuck here, caught between the image of who I wish I could be and the reality of who I am. I hate it all, every part of it. I only want to look good, to be free from this relentless need. But that’s all it is now—hate. Hate for my face, hate for my reflection, hate for this endless, inescapable trap I’ve created for myself. And somewhere in all of this, I’ve lost who I was, if I was ever even there to begin with. Jfl…
One day, scrolling through TikTok, I stumbled upon a video by Dylan Latham, talking about skincare and this concept called “Looksmaxxing.” I’d never heard the term before, but it stuck with me. The idea that you could “maximize” your looks, that there was a formula to looking better—it was like a lifeline, a secret I hadn’t known I needed. I started watching more videos, sinking into this world of advice, hacks, and transformation stories. It became something more than just a passing interest; it became part of who I was.
I began idolizing models: Chico, Jordan Barrett, Sean O’Pry—all of them with their perfect features and magnetic confidence. They seemed untouchable, like living art. I wanted that. I wanted to walk into a room and feel like I was someone people noticed, someone admired. I started buying every product I could find, from cleansers to serums to things I didn’t even understand. I followed the routines religiously, convincing myself that I was becoming someone attractive. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a glimpse of that transformation, like I was finally becoming something closer to the ideal I’d built up in my mind.
But then, the more I watched, the more the cracks in my self-assurance began to show. I found my way onto forums like looksmax.org, where people analyzed every detail of appearance in brutal, clinical terms. Reading those posts made me hyper-aware of every single flaw. I began to notice things about my face that I’d never seen before. It was like a switch had flipped, and suddenly all I could see were imperfections. My friends were no longer just friends; they became standards to measure myself against. I’d analyze their faces in ways that made me feel like a stranger, even to myself.
By the time I was fifteen, I was deep in the rabbit hole. Every reflection, every photo, became an exercise in self-critique. I picked myself apart with a precision that was almost surgical. My nights were filled with a dark envy, comparing myself to people online who seemed to have it all together, who had the looks I craved. I hated what I saw in myself, and I hated that I felt so obsessed with something I couldn’t change.
And then the thoughts started creeping in, whispers of something darker. I’d think about ending it all, about finding a way to escape this endless, suffocating loop. But my faith held me back; I’m a Christian, and that belief kept me tethered, kept me from crossing that line. Yet even with that anchor, I still felt lost, drowning in my own reflection.
The girls in my class? I couldn’t stand them. I felt like they were mocking me, making comments about my appearance as if they saw right through my efforts. They didn’t understand how much it hurt. Their words burrowed under my skin, feeding the anger and self-loathing growing inside me. I turned to extreme measures to “fix” myself. I discovered bonesmashing, thumb-pulling, anything that promised even the slightest change. I’d press against my palate, trying to reshape my maxilla, desperate to create a more defined look. It felt insane, but I was trapped in this need to fix what I thought was broken.
Every night, I’d lie awake, wishing I could be what they call a “High Tier Normie”—someone attractive enough to be noticed, to be valued. But I felt like a “Low Tier Normie” instead, barely average. The label haunted me, made me question everything I did, every way I presented myself to the world. I considered suicide again, but fear and faith held me back. I hated the way I looked in photos. No matter how much I tried to change or mask it, I couldn’t escape the face staring back at me, a face that never seemed to measure up.
As I spiraled deeper, I drowned myself in more Looksmaxxing and Blackpill videos, each one a reminder that I was chasing something forever out of reach. People would compliment me sometimes, call me handsome, say I looked like a model. But to me, they were lying. I felt nothing but resentment. I hated them for saying things that felt empty, for making me question my own reality. The lies felt like cruelty, and I hated them for it.
The worst was the buccal fat in my cheeks. It drove me insane. Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was the roundness in my face, an insult to the sharp, defined features I wanted. It became an obsession, a constant reminder of everything I wasn’t. My appearance consumed every thought, every moment, until I felt like I was drowning in it. Now, it’s all I think about. I feel like everyone is looking at me, seeing how ugly I am. I don’t want to turn my head, because then they’ll see my recessed maxilla, the flaw that’s become my prison.
I’m stuck here, caught between the image of who I wish I could be and the reality of who I am. I hate it all, every part of it. I only want to look good, to be free from this relentless need. But that’s all it is now—hate. Hate for my face, hate for my reflection, hate for this endless, inescapable trap I’ve created for myself. And somewhere in all of this, I’ve lost who I was, if I was ever even there to begin with. Jfl…
