Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
CARI
I’ve lost followers before. God, I’ve lost more in this last week than I have in all the years I’ve been on Instagram. But going to Max’s page, her username I’ve had memorized for almost a year: @maxmphotography and seeing that I’m blocked hurts worse than any of those unfollows.
I fall to the floor of my bathroom, leaning against the back of the door and sliding all the way down.
I look at the profile and can only see they have fifty posts, but none of them are loading.
I thought it was just a fluke at first. Maybe my Wi-Fi wasn’t connected right, or that time when Instagram was down for everyone.
But no matter what I try, it isn’t working.
Testing it just to be sure, I log in to an older account of mine.
I used to use it to post about silly things, but only River truly knew about it.
I type in Max’s username, and nope, there I am again, blocked.
Screw Instagram for updating their blocking abilities to include any accounts I’ve made.
How could Max block me? I know she’s still upset with me; we haven’t spoken since the Halloween party.
I had reached out over a dozen times hoping to apologize in person, before finally apologizing over text.
My phone falls out of my hand and I unwillingly start crying.
The tears fall from my eyes without warning and I’m trying to keep my crying quiet.
I don’t know if Hazel is home, and the last thing I want to admit is that I am crying at almost thirty years old over someone blocking me on social media.
I know how pathetic it is, I know how childish I look.
But I don’t care. This fucking hurts me.
I thought she just needed some time, but to block me completely?
Does that mean we aren’t even friends anymore?
I clench my fists and cover my mouth with my shirt.
I’m sucking in my cheeks to stop the tears, but it isn’t working.
My heart is beating a million miles a minute, and all I want is not to feel anything right now.
It’s like my heart is in overdrive, and all my emotions are clashing into each other at once.
I’m trying to get my breathing steady, but my cheeks are soaked, and I can feel them overheating too.
How am I supposed to get along without Max in my life?
I pick up my phone and open our messages, but instead of the usual blue iMessage, it looks green and says “text message”.
That’s the final straw; clearly, Max doesn’t want to hear from me anymore.
I don’t know exactly when Max had blocked me, but it must’ve been in between the last time I checked Instagram—maybe before breakfast—and after I sent the last text, at approximately 7:39 p.m. last night. Does Max really hate me that much?
I can still feel the impression of her lips from the last time we kissed and the way her fingers felt laced in mine.
How the hell could she not feel that too?
I brush my fingers across my lips, the phantom feeling of hers there.
I knew she was scared of commitment, I knew this was going to be an uphill battle, but I didn’t think she’d give up so easily.
Even last time, she didn’t block me on everything; we just took a little bit of space.
Is there someone new? No. I couldn’t consider that.
I glance at my phone again. There is no way for me to check now.
It isn’t like I could see her profile, how would I even know if she is following someone new?
How would I know if she is ignoring me or just busy at work?
It isn’t like I can call River and ask. She’s barely talking to me as it is; she is still pissed about Halloween.
I know she said we were fine, but I can tell she doesn’t entirely mean it.
I am in no place to inquire about Max, especially since I don’t know if Aspen is talking to me either.
I can feel my brain spiraling. It’s like every thought I’ve ever had about Max is running through my brain at once.
I am overwhelmed, and the tears soaking through my shirt, but at least I quieted my crying.
I manage to stand up and make the mistake of looking in the mirror.
My cheeks are puffy and red, my face is wet like I’ve just walked in from the rain, and my eyelashes look like a wilted flower.
At least I’m not wearing any makeup, or it would be all over my face like on Halloween.
My hair is matted to my cheeks, all over my forehead in a mess.
I impulsively grab the scissors sitting on my sink and chop off a few inches, the blonde hair falling in front of me.
I cut a few more pieces, giving myself bangs before shrugging.
It isn’t perfect, but I can always touch it up in the morning. I can feel my heart beginning to relax, and I can breathe a little easier.
I’m about to gather the hair from the sink and floor when I get an idea and grab my phone instead. I take a series of selfies, not caring that I’m only wearing a bra and panties. My account is about self-love, after all, and it comes in all shapes and forms, even if this isn’t my normal content.
I make sure to include a photo of the hair I cut first before posting. I caption it, ‘New Hair November? Who’s with me?’ And click out of the app before the likes start to come in.
Lately, I am still getting negative comments, and I don’t want to deal with those right now.
I toss my phone on the bed and clean up the bathroom, taking the time to hit my weed pen when I find it on the bathroom counter.
I am always leaving it somewhere it shouldn’t.
I hit it a few more times than usual, hoping the smoke hits my lungs faster.
I don’t want to feel what I am feeling. I need an escape, even if it is temporary.
Cleaning up hair is more annoying than I expected it to be. It is all over the place and not sliding with the broom the way I want it to. I really need a vacuum, but I don’t want to disturb Hazel so I decide to leave it for the morning.
I put my weed pen behind my ear, that being my usual go-to spot when I don’t want to lose it.
Of course, there was that one time I didn’t remember, I put it there until I looked in the mirror.
Which only made me crack up with laughter since I was high as a kite.
I decide to clean my room a bit; there is laundry all over and some takeout hiding in my garbage can that really should go out.
I toss on an oversized t-shirt and hope I don’t see anyone. The trash chute is just down the hall, so I could make it without going outside. I gather everything together and get back without anyone seeing me. I head back into my room and peel off all my clothes.
Passing by the mirror in the bathroom, I admire my body. I know it isn’t perfect by any standards; I have stretch marks and rolls and a million other things not deemed ‘perfect’ but to me it looks good. I grab my phone and snap a few photos.
In twenty years, I would be pissed at myself for not thinking to commemorate this body.
I grab a few where it’s just my chest and face, they come out sort of artsy, and as I look at them, I realize they’d be perfect to post. They fit my aesthetic and my self-love vibe, sure I’m not usually someone to post basically a nude photo, but who cares?
I reopen Instagram and post a few of the selfies I just took.
I don’t bother captioning them besides an emoji of the blushing smiley face.
I fall asleep shortly after climbing into bed. Maybe things will feel better tomorrow. Not that things were often better the next day. If my record is any indication, lately things feel worse in the morning. But nonetheless, I go to sleep after plugging my phone in to charge.
In the morning, my phone is silent until I open social media.
Despite having only posted on Instagram, my photos spread across social media.
Several gossip influencers have been talking about them and my Halloween posts, asking whether I’m stable.
It’s a sharp pinch in my side, but unfortunately, nothing new.
People are going to talk about you, that’s the job after all.
But what is surprising is my dropping follower count.
Every time I hit refresh, I need to take another deep breath.
Before I completely lose my cool, maybe I should just delete the photos.
I guess people are fine with self-love as long as I keep my clothes on.
I didn’t think anyone would freak out this much, but I am losing followers by the second. With comments like,
‘This isn’t what I signed up for, if I wanted porn I’d follow an actual porn star’
‘Wtf is this!! Where’s the normal content?’
‘Is she ok?’
‘Seems like Halloween started her downward spiral’
I usually don’t bother reading the comments, but there are so many I can’t ignore them the way they are popping up.
I hit refresh, and my account freezes, Instagram logs me out, and I can’t log back in.
I check my email, and my blood runs cold when I see the email from them, saying my account has been suspended.
There’s no way. Sure, I showed a little nipple.
But it isn’t like I was completely naked.
Who the hell cares when I am providing them with so much traction?
I keep reading the email; apparently, I’ve had a high number of reports to this account, and they need to investigate.
I hit appeal and give a long-winded explanation, hoping they’ll reinstate my account.
I’ve heard of this happening to other people and Instagram usually gives it back.
But I hear back almost immediately with a negative response.
Since this wasn’t my first time being suspended or having nudity on the account their only option was to close it. I am welcome to wait thirty days and start a new account, but only if I don’t post any nudity.
My mouth runs dry and I don’t know what else to do.
I go live on TikTok, hoping that my followers can help me.
Maybe begging them to reinstate my account would work better than me trying to do it myself.
But for the first time since hitting my million, I go live, and no one joins.
There are a few people who tap in accidentally and almost immediately click out.
I’m explaining myself, hoping that people will see how serious this is, but no one seems to care.
I click out of live, unsure of what else to do.
This was my life, my income, my stability.
How can I go forward if I don’t have this?
It feels like my roof is caving in and crushing me from the outside in.
I try to steady myself with deep breaths and stay focused, but it isn’t working.
All I feel is my chest getting tighter and my head starting to pound.
I catch myself on the side of my bed and slink down to the floor.
I can’t fall if I am already on the ground, even though it feels like that might cave in too.