009. ITS A HARSH WORLD
influencer events, the decline of the publishing industry and a recent health scare
I feel like I begin each of these posts with a ‘Hi, it’s me, and yes, I’m still alive and the Substack is still a thing’- indeed I’m still here, working that 7:30am - 5pm job and reading into the night with my Bookstagram account. I get asked every time if I would look into going into the book sphere fulltime and to be honest, it scares me. I’m in absolute awe of the plethora of book content creators that exist out in the world that put their heart and soul into creating content full-time but in all honesty, I find it a bit draining sometimes. Five years ago I never would have seen myself sitting there on a Sunday mid afternoon editing and shooting for a reel, typing out captions and generating hashtags, over simply reaching for a book and lying back with a hot tea. But alas, this is the world I’ve succumbed to and for now I’m trying to juggle everything whilst not getting agitated as hell.
Being in the ‘influencer’ world ( a term that still makes me scrunch up my face at), somehow means that subsequently brands seem to want me at their launch events- some of which have just absolutely blown me away. I was invited to a store opening via an agency and brought a friend with me because let’s be honest, I know how this is going to go: I’ll walk towards the event and a little mass of influencers will be crowded near the door to bodycheck the hell out of guests and you’ll be left wondering if the hour prep time you put in before, shaving and moisturising and scouring Insta for an outfit inspo, was really worth it. I get anxiety with these sort of things. I wish I was the sort of gal that could just rock up and greet everyone like their best friend they haven’t seen in yonks but I’m not. I’m a worrywart and a serial ‘comparer’. I walk up to the doors. Eyes scan hurriedly for a face, any face that seems to resemble some sort of comfort and element of safety - I spot a few friends and settle in. Drinks are offered, conversations start flowing. The flash of phone screens either side of me as photos start flooding storage drives. I guess I should probably take photos too right? Snap. Snap. Kisses and hugs. Selfies in front of a mirror. The slow growl of an empty stomach. I’ve got to leave soon otherwise I feel like I may perish from double cheek kisses and champagne.
It’s still such an extraordinary idea to me - inviting content creators to make a splash in the marketing sector. But what else did we expect with the downfall of print? I spent a big part of my youth rushing into the local dairy to purchase a copy of Russh magazine or a Vogue; to have the spine issue numbers line up when stacked, the fresh crisp smell of pages flipped open. Full colour ads graced each page, puddles of images of what the next thing to buy filled my brain with what to buy next payday, the editor’s letter with the personalised signature, the photos on press events/ I was always scouring these photos like a forensic scientist from CSI thinking I’d recognise someone in the photos, almost never did. The smell, oh the smell of printed paper! The eradication of the majority of print magazines here in NZ has like the rest of the world, altered the landscape of print media struggling to remain relevant. Full page adverts now replaced with the rate card of a 6 second reel and a content creator twirling on screen. The concept of a rate card to me still seems wild - marketing oneself up for an exchange of marketing activity certainly glamorizes the concept of entertainment versus advertising and upends societies ability to challenge consumer attention.
As a teen, the publishing industry with its fast paced glossy ideals left me hungry for the same; as it infiltrated movies such as The Devil Wears Prada, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, 13 Going on 30 and even series such as The Hills, the struggles of working for a highly competitive industry glamorized the idea of ‘work’ and having it all. A woman in her 20’s interning at Vogue magazine simply became a mantra. Finding comfort in an industry encased in glamour, apartment living, independency, nights out with friends and work assignments guaranteeing an onslaught of positive reinforcement, seemed to fill that illusory void of expectation versus reality. These girls had it all so why couldn’t I?
But what of the rise of digital media? I mean it’s not news to anyone that there’s been a shift in print readership and advertising to digital and household publications are even assigning more budget into online formats and paid social media elements. I may be ‘old school’ in the fact that I miss those print run days, the days when I’d be popping into my daily news outlet or bookstore just to flick through magazines much to the detriment of the person behind the till wanting a quick sale. Between 2019 and 2022, total audiences for magazine companies decreased by 38.56 percent, according to wordsrated.com. Digital newspapers and magazines worldwide, however, are projected to reach a revenue of $40.23 billion by 2024, according to statista.com. Premium memberships are also slapping us in the face. I just tried to listen to a few audiobooks as background noise only to have the neon green of a ‘Available in Premium’ flashing under the title - sigh, well there goes another form of reading style I wanted to embrace.
Why does everything cost more money?
Why do we have to share everything online?
Is there really a need?
A few weeks ago, anxiety took a toll on my body for a few days and it still gives me the shivers to think ‘what if?’. As a woman in her late 30’s I know the drill. Hit your 40’s / 45 and you’re guaranteed a free mammogram and breast checks so why check earlier? I had felt a small lump on my left breast prior to a recent trip to Japan but then thought nothing of it, convincing myself it was just a muscle gland - ‘you’re over-reacting’, it’s nothing. The death scroll on social media brought me to a content creator sitting on her bed looking somber, unfiltered, and sad as she tells the camera of her recent diagnosis - she has breast cancer and will start doing chemo soon. The tears flow and the comment session is already insane with a flurry of support as her partner joins her on screen to give her a warm embrace. I found myself balling my eyes out, thoughts reverting back to that same lump I had found. I feel around again. It’s still there.
The panic sets in and I can’t stop thinking about it. 9pm rolls around and I’m on my doctor’s website, pausing to make an appointment. I chicken out and sleep takes over. The next morning, I overhear conversations on mammograms being done, the tendencies to take healthcare seriously, health insurance - do I have it? The panic sets in yet again. I mention the lump. The feminine sphere surrounds me - words of encouragement, confirmations to go get it checked out get thrown into the conversation. I’m left feeling affirmed of the appointment I’ve just made with my doctor but I’m more than anything, absolutely terrified.
I’m a catastrophiser.
I always will be.
I started thinking of the ‘what if’s’ and what would happen if things went south. I was a mess. I found myself crying talking about this impending appointment - I felt like a little girl nervous as hell going in for a blood test. The stark white walls. The syringes. The tools. The unknown. The diagnosis.
The appointment rolls around. I leave the house early. Park up and take a deep breath. Drag my feet up the medicinally cleansed steps to the reception counter and tell them my name. They direct me to round the corner to the waiting room - the somber faces on people also waiting for the doctor seems to bring about this joint understanding of bad news. Twenty minutes go past and I’m wondering if I should go to the front desk to remind them that I’m here, still waiting. My name gets called. It’s not my usual doctor, but then again, he retired two years ago and now its some hotshot who I definitely don’t want to be flashing my breast at. The door opens and it’s the strained face of a female doctor, the look of suspicion flashes suddenly through her eyes and she adjusts her gaze:
“Hi, I’m Mary, what brings you in today?”
I fumble with my answer - I can’t string two sentences together because I’m so nervous. I tell her that I feel like I’m at that age where I need to be cautious, I’m not quite 40 but I’ve felt something. I’ve felt a lump.
She looks at me curiously and I don’t know if its a look of disbelief or simply me just being paranoid and scared all at the same time.
“Did you want me to double check to see if there’s a lump there for you?” she asks,
“Yes please.”
She points to the bed, instructs me to take off everything on my top half and to lie on the bed. The anxiety sets in. I lie down and wait for the curtain to open.
She slowly lifts my top, tells me to lift up my arms and she feels each of my breasts. The words every woman dreads hearing is uttered out loud: “Yes, I can definitely feel a lump.”
She can quickly sense my fear and adds that because I can feel a bit of pain and its a bit tender that this could be a clear sign of it not being cancer but the very C word just has me in this sort of catatonic state - I can’t move, I can’t hear. I don’t even know how I drove home after. I know she made a referral for me to a breast clinic and I know she handed me a piece of paper but I don’t know how I even functioned as a human after hearing those words. It’s worse going to the doctors to have someone get so intimate with your fears but to confirm them is another. My mind became swept up in the ‘what ifs’; I can’t even utter them now as I’m writing this for fear of jinxing it, but you really do look at your life with another set of eyes when you receive bad news.
I go home, try to fix myself a platter of anything I can find in the fridge - a handful of olives, some wafer crackers and the last remaining corner of brie cheese. I burst into tears just as a text comes through from Sam asking how it went. I’m in a state by the time he gets home. I can’t sleep.
I can’t not stop crying every time someone asks me if I’m ok.
Crybaby.
Maybe I should get that tattooed.
I do it so often nowadays I’m wondering if Sam knew he was in for a show of waterworks every time I’m stressed.
The referral to St Marks Breast Clinic rolls around.
8am, 2 days later.
We arrive early.
It’s one of those buildings that looks grand but the glossy signage still reads ‘be serious about your health’/ ‘you’ll be fixed here’. Up the lift we go to a reception where two teenage girls look at me with a smile - great, I already feel older turning up to this appointment. Two forms filled out later and I’m led to a separate area to get changed into a gown and to patiently wait in another waiting area. I don’t quite know what to do with my clothes and the door doesn’t lock so I fold up my clothes into a neat pile and pray that noone looks at it and thinks wtf she didn’t listen to the rules. I sit down cold and pull the gown closer to my body - I’m scared shitless. A woman emerges from a room and smiles at me as she leads me to door number 1 - the mammogram.
Say hello to a perspex sandwich press aimed at pushing down these barely there breasts with such force that even breathing hurts. I brace myself for the other breast as she pulls my right breast into place and pushes it down with a block and turns the knob to tighten it in. Another piece to this contraption that leaves me almost yelping ‘why?!’. Then, just like that its over.
I’m led back to the waiting room where a few more women are also grimly staring back at me in their gowns. I wasn’t expecting smiles but the acknowledgment of the eyes seemed to pass itself off as an unspoken language of understanding - fellow allies. Down to door number 2 - the ultrasound. A woman leads me to the room and says they’re still looking at my mammogram but to lie on the bed, a cool gel slides around on my breasts - I turn to look at the screen and see the black mass. I gasp a little. She assures me that to her its a cyst. They have to drain it here and now. A syringe flashes before my eyes, a nurse holds me on my side as the anesthetic gets pushed in; I’m already welling up. This wasn’t what I was expecting. I wasn’t emotionally and physically ready for this. Eyes squeezed shut. Face scrunched up. I count to 10.
Then, it’s done.
I head back to the changing rooms and breath a sigh of relief at seeing my folded pile still there. I don’t know why I thought that was going to disappear but you know, the catastrophiser in me. I have this slight craving for cookies and cream. I get changed and place the gown heavy with my emotions into the woven baskets labelled ‘dirty’. I walk back to the main waiting room where Sam is already flicking through what looks like his fourth magazine and smile a crooked smile, “all done” is all I can manage out my mouth.
I’m exhausted.
Tired but now hungry. Relieved that it was a cyst but still so overwhelmed that it was drained right then and there. Surreal.
Sam asks me if I’m ok. I am, but you know the drill.
Crybaby walking.
I repeat, crybaby walking.
