Essay: "I am beautiful"

On masculinity, mental health, and John Carpenter's 'The Thing'

Oct 27, 2025

“You are beautiful.”

No, I’m not.

“Say it out loud. You are beautiful, inside and out.”

I have a friend who started making social media videos giving pep talks to whoever is watching. She wants to be a life coach.

We’re both basically the same age, but we’re approaching our midlife crises differently: she dreams of becoming a feel-good influencer, and I want to sleep all day. I don’t know why I scroll through her feed, watching her tell dozens of viewers how to love themselves, why they should happily, self-confidently stand in front of the mirror naked, and what they should put in their morning smoothie. I will lie in bed and watch her as she whispers sweet clichés, her lips plump and glossy, her hair perfect.

Behind her, a large piece of very modern wall art hangs, a picture frame with the words ‘Be Still’ scrawled in black cursive against a white background. Ah, yes, words of wisdom. I can’t see the rest of her room or house, but I imagine her couch’s throw pillows are, somehow, just as inane.

She has promised to start a YouTube channel, but is mainly on Instagram. What has she done in her life that makes her think she can coach someone? I'm thinking about starting a burner account so I can write “Who do you think you are?” in the comments. She is so desperate, and pathetic, and how does she know I’m beautiful? Where does she get off telling people who aren’t beautiful that they’re beautiful? That’s pretty irresponsible if you ask me, and I have considered reporting her for lying.

For lying.

I will not stand in front of my mirror naked and tell myself I am beautiful because I am fat and gross and old, and I think I am decaying faster than normal. Besides, men aren’t beautiful; we’re handsome, like a skyscraper or a rocket. I watched every video she made. I hated her.

So I unfollowed her. I muted, then, a few minutes later, blocked her. That was that, for a few months at least.

***

The very first time I got to write about a movie was probably 1998. I worked for a small publishing company that produced cheap magazines on personal computers and telecommuting, and their most popular book was on home theater equipment, covering high-end entertainment systems. I was working as an editorial assistant for a magazine about business software, and the editor-in-chief of the much cooler home theater mag down the hall gave me a shot at a byline: I could write a 200-word review of the brand new DVD of John Carpenter’s The Thing from 1982.

The editor-in-chief was very supportive and kind, loved wires and speakers, and had an office that was a messy mad scientist’s laboratory, with electronics strewn everywhere. The magazine didn’t have a large staff, but there was one senior editor who was a little older than me, but acted like a cool divorced uncle. He asked me if I wanted help writing my short DVD review, and I politely declined, and he slowly shook his head, as if to say “big mistake, rookie.”

“The Thing is more than some sci-fi horror, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” I didn’t know.

For the uninitiated, The Thing, a remake of 1951’s The Thing From Another World, is director John Carpenter’s masterpiece. It came four years after his genre-defining slasher hit Halloween and one year after his over-the-top dystopian action epic Escape from New York, about a one-eyed warrior played by Kurt Russell forced to infiltrate Manhattan, now a prison island.

Carpenter and Russell reunite in The Thing, a paranoid story about a group of isolated men trapped in an Arctic research base with a shapeshifting alien that spreads like a virus. The titular thing can assume any form—animal or human—and the bodies it inhabits twist and bend to its will; spider legs sprout, faces melt, bodies split open. The research station is a kind of dysfunctional family—guys drinking, playing pool, surviving together in quarantine at the bottom of the world—until the alien destroys their trust in each other.

The movie was a flop upon release, but it has gained appreciation over the decades for its tense, disciplined storytelling and Rob Bottin’s practical special effects that are still unbearable to watch.

I watched in the office, on a massive system that was being tested, a huge tube television flanked by speaker towers. Watching the movie in that soundproofed room felt like being swallowed by light and sound. The flamethrower’s jets of fire were brilliantly red, the winter wasteland’s blue pure deathly ice, and I could feel the monster’s shrieks, a mix of human screams of suffering and animal roars, in my guts.

The DVD was still a relatively new format, having come out the year before, and it was most popular with cinephiles who loved its visual quality and 5.1-channel digital surround sound. The reviews the magazine printed were primarily technical: my job was to confirm that the picture looked clear and crisp, that the colors popped, and that I could hear the crunch of snow on-screen behind me or the roar of the alien beast above me. If there was room in the layout, I could sneak in a few wannabe pretentious film critic words about The Thing. I forget exactly what I wrote, but I remember using what I thought were high-brow superlatives. The kind you read in quotes on a movie poster. “Engrossing!”

I have always been insecure about my intelligence and, yeah, don’t worry, I blame my childhood. Some boys are just patted on the head, escorted to the back of the class, and left there because, let’s be honest, in the ‘80s, it was still assumed that boys, especially those who look white, are going to do just fine out there in the world. It is a man’s world, as the song goes.

But that review was one of the few times I had ever tested the mantra “fake it until you make it,” and while I don’t think that particular bit of wisdom is a solid foundation to build a life on, it’s useful every so often. When the editor-in-chief asked me if I was interested in reviewing DVDs, I said “yes,” and when he asked if I had ever written a review before, I responded “maybe?” and he didn’t question it. I think he knew I had zero experience with this kind of writing, but since I was already on staff at another rag and he wasn’t going to pay me, what the hell? He gave it a thorough edit, taking care not to take the easy path—rewriting my copy—but instead rearranging it, hammering it here and there, and making it work.

The senior editor took me out for lunch a few months later to celebrate my name in print, in the very back of the book, along with four other short reviews from other writers, actual seasoned hacks. He took giant bites out of his tuna salad sandwich and talked with his mouth open, and his nose was sweaty, and I only remember that because it was November, and who sweats in November? He spoke to me the way a High School Senior might lecture a Sophomore on life, with knowledge known only to those two to three years older.

He had lofty career plans, and I honestly don’t know whether he achieved them. He gossiped about his boss, the editor-in-chief, who assigned me, and I didn’t really like that. Sensing that he was talking about himself too much, he asked me if I liked body horror movies like The Thing, and I had never heard of the term ‘body horror.’ Bolts sticking out of flesh, heads exploding, bodies turning inside out, aren’t all horror movies about bodies? He chuckled, happy to educate me. He tried.

Not all horror movies are body horror movies, which is a subgenre. The term was coined by filmmaker Phillip Brophy, blah blah blah, Cronenberg. He mentioned the Canadian director several times. I was, and am, a David Cronenberg fan. The Fly is a magnificent movie about a man losing his humanity, his teeth, and his ears, and the only way he can eat donuts is by vomiting acid on them. I didn’t know it was ‘body horror.’ I just knew that my favorite horror movies were about spurting blood and slippery entrails and bubbling skin.

The Thing, he said, was about the betrayal of flesh.

Oh, I thought, I guess I like body horror.

***

My mind is busy. That’s a cute way to say I have sudden bursts of anxiety, the works: a racing heartbeat, the sweats, and an inner voice whispering secrets like, “You definitely have cancer.”

These episodes—which I call them when I’m feeling aristocratic—are almost always sparked by a physical affliction, no matter how small. A splinter. A sore throat. A muscle spasm. I fear rot. I fear what’s hiding under my skin, wrapped around bones, feeding on organs. I fear the fingers of disease.

Anyway, I’m a hypochondriac.

I used to flatter myself by thinking a busy mind was a sign of a high IQ, but then, on a sleepless night, as I pondered the indignities and torments of the flesh, I emotionally ate an entire Entenmann’s lemon loaf cake in the dark and gave myself a stomachache.

I told a therapist once that I had a busy mind, and he asked me to describe what that was like. I explained a scene from a zombie movie where survivors desperately nail broken planks of wood over the windows to keep the undead out. My brain felt like it was constantly under siege.

He nodded. Zombies? Yeah, the kind that eat brains.

I used to drink to shush my anxieties, but that doesn’t work. Drinking while spiraling is like scratching poison ivy blisters—it feels good, sure, but makes everything worse. Sobering up helped. Took a while, but the cornerstone of quitting booze is being brutally honest with oneself. Fear prefers darkness.

For years, talking to professionals, fellow alcoholics, and friends was enough to keep me from screaming at the moon. But recently, my mind had run out of boards and nails, and there were more zombies than ever outside, groaning and scratching at the door.

So I decided to take antidepressants to turn down the noise in my head.

I had taken these kinds of medication once, years ago, but that was to help me quit smoking. For a brief period, the antidepressant Wellbutrin was rebranded as Zyban, an anti-smoking drug, and that rebranding was dishonest. Zyban promised that you could keep smoking until—suddenly—you stopped.

It almost worked. My nicotine cravings did decrease. But my emotions were flattened, and I felt like I was floating. Then I suffered a severe allergic reaction to the medication. I remember calling my doctor and telling him I had a rash and my lips were swelling up, and he hissed very clearly, “Stop taking Zyban.”

That put me off antidepressants for years, even when the anxieties were crawling through the windows. That experience wasn’t positive. Also, as a red-blooded American man, I believed medications were for weaklings. Headache? Suffer. Stomachache? Eat a slice of pizza. A real man bleeds. He refuses help or medical attention. Oh, I cut off a finger? No biggie. Here, I’ll duct-tape it back on—it’s good as new.

My sense of masculinity has kept me from trying things that would otherwise decrease my physical or emotional suffering. Believe it or not, I avoided saunas for years because the idea of sweating with other men in a small room full of steam didn’t strike me as manly. Little did I know that nearly every massive, tree-sized Russian in Brighton Beach would have aggressively disagreed with me.

Another example of gender norms getting in the way of a good time: for years, decades, I wouldn’t/couldn’t tell my friends, the people who have accepted and shown up for me over and over again, that I… that I loved them. Thankfully, I was persuaded by people who care about me—and by one grizzled sponsor, constantly impatient with my various superficial worldviews—that I should take every opportunity to tell my dudes how I felt about them, which also included a few choice, immature insults for fun.

But taking a drug that would support my mental health was something I had to embrace, even if, for hundreds of years, the way men dealt with inner pain was to wander off into the woods and get eaten by bears.

A few years ago, however, I had what I now know was a panic attack. I had just received a COVID booster vaccine, and I didn’t know that one of the side effects of that drug is believing whatever it is you read on the internet. I’ve taken the vaccine since then, but in that specific moment, I was suddenly, viscerally, raw. Vulnerable.

There is so much fear being pumped into our various technologies—a river of engagement-boosting digital sewage unleashed by powerful people who do not care about my well-being—and, for some reason, that jab triggered memories of the pandemic: of a year of hiding inside and wondering if I’d ever see my family again, and dreading fevers and coughs.

During those awful recollections, something in my body stirred. I became, without warning, acutely aware of my belly, and then absolutely convinced that an umbilical hernia—a bulge near my belly button—was going to explode and kill me. That bulge is part of my intestine, and it’s quite common and not dangerous at all. A girlfriend once told me my navel looked like a half-moon, and that was nice.

I slept poorly, making sure not to move too quickly, lest I burst like a piñata stuffed with candy. The next morning, I sat in my doctor’s office on the verge of tears and told him I knew my belly button wasn’t going to explode—and that I probably needed some medication to help me with my anxiety.

I asked him one of the most pathetic questions in the human language: “Why me?” Am I cursed? Without looking away from his computer screen, he replied: ‘You’re human.” And my inner voice whispered: “Are you?”

The doctor prescribed an SSRI, and the side effects turned me into a living gourd who did nothing but sit around all day, so we tried another. It worked. Just a little bit. Enough.

My mind has enough lumber now, a nail gun, and barbed wire, and I’m safe inside—even though I can hear them moaning with hunger on the porch.

***

I have this tic where, if I unfollow you on social media, I check in on you multiple times a day to see how you’re doing without me.

The life coach seemed to be doing fine. She had even gained a few followers. She was still making short videos in front of her tasteful and inspiring art. “Be Still.” She was still staring into her computer’s camera, her mascara perfectly applied, her eyes wide and unblinking. She was still offering up inspirational, life-affirming aphorisms. Look in the mirror. Tell yourself you’re smart. You deserve happiness. You’re beautiful.

I know it seems contradictory to unfollow someone and then turn around and watch their content, but mind you, I did not engage. I didn’t like, share, or comment. I was a ghost, invisible and judgmental, floating with my arms crossed.

And then there was one video in which she talked about her recent breakup. She looked tired. In the video, she mentioned how much she missed her ex and that it was okay to be sad, and I wanted to comment, “Thanks for the permission,” until I realized I was sad, too.

And then I forgot why I had unfollowed her.

The antidepressants had made it easier for me to identify my feelings as they were happening. My mind wasn’t as busy. It was quiet, in fact. The inner voice was gone, asleep. Meanwhile, I could whisper to myself, “I am sad.” Ah yes. That is how I am feeling. Weird.

The zombies were off, stumbling around, in some other part of my inner world most days, post-meds. I had clarity. I was sad. Unemployed, single, lonely. This old friend of mine, who knew me when I was young and had just moved to the city, had made me feel jealous and angry because she wanted to be seen and, I think, to tell people what she wanted to hear. What she wasn’t being told. That’s my theory, at least.

I had this moment of deep connection with the life coach, and I almost direct messaged her, but instead, I re-followed her account, and I doubt she even noticed. She is just reaching out, performing, getting older, and feeling smaller, and what’s the matter with hanging an inexpensive piece of art on your wall that says “Be Still”? That’s solid advice. Be still. Not busy. Still. Breathe. Do not flop around in painful yesterdays or lunge towards unknown tomorrows. Just be still, be where you are, in your body, and breathe.

I felt shame for a brief moment. She wanted to “go viral,” which is a terrible and entirely appropriate way of saying “popular”, and make money, sure, who doesn’t? But her videos were harmless. They were wishes. Play. Just her talking to nobody special, maybe a few dozen nobodies, friends, strangers, and weirdos, including me, and what did she do once she had our attention? She told us we were beautiful, to stand in front of our mirrors, celebrate our bodies, and say, “I am beautiful.”

So I did.

I have a full-length mirror in my bedroom. It’s my wife’s. I don’t know how long she’s had it, but it’s the mirror she checks in on before rushing out the door for work, and when she leaves for the day, I sometimes steal a look.

I inhaled. I exhaled. I was still. My mind was still. I took off my clothes and started with my feet, my unclipped toenails. I made a mental note to clip them later. What if I got a pedicure? My wife would love to hear that. We could go together. I’d get them painted something manly like flamethrower red or Batman black.

A thought passed through me: I am not a thing.

The only part of my body anyone has ever complimented was my legs, so I studied them. My legs are hairy; they have some muscle and look strong and solid. I’m a good enough swimmer, and my legs look like they belong to a swimmer, even if the rest of my body doesn’t.

I have narrow hips.

There’s no other word for what comes next, which is my penis. My testicles, too, and my pubic hair, which is also bushier than usual. I can’t say I’ve spent much time observing my genitals, which I suppose is interesting since those bits of flesh are so important, or so I’m told. It’s so sad and dangly when flaccid, and so full of itself when erect. I wish we had better names for our silly private parts; maybe our society would improve a little with some branding tweaks. I do not think “penis” or “vagina” are strong words, and there are few slang words that are any more dignified.

I dated a woman once who told me her ex named his penis Samson, which is funny but also affirming, strangely. I didn’t ask if it deserved to be called Samson. I laughed when she suggested we name mine; it was just a game, but I demurred.

Maybe I’d carry myself differently if I named it something tough, like Lee Marvin. I don’t know. I think more men should look at their dicks and balls and just deal with the fact that most of the time, they’re soft and useless and fun to scratch and nothing more. We are not our sex organs.

I then moved up to my belly, my half-moon belly, my umbilical hernia, which I have been assured is not a danger to my health. My doctor told me I could get surgery to correct the bulge, but that my insurance would not cover it. I don’t like how it looks. I never have, even though a past girlfriend would try to pet it—The Bulge—a failed attempt to make me feel comfortable with the umbilical hernia.

“Don’t touch it,” I wanted to say, “Or it will bite you.”

And then there’s my belly. My hairy gut. Not a beer belly, but it does not look like a swimmer’s belly. I also have fat wings that make me look wide, even though my hips are not. I do not look away. I stare at my chubby frame and move up to my nipples, my three chest hairs, and my moles. I am sagging. I have a matching pair of skin tags on my shoulders that my doctor told me not to worry about, which made me worry.

My neck isn’t thick or particularly muscular. I am not muscular. My beard is wiry and white. My teeth need a cleaning. My eyes are brown behind glasses, without which I could not see myself in my mirror. I still have my hair, for now, and it is streaked with grey. I’m about five foot ten. I have gained weight recently, which I’m told is a side-effect of the medication. I have been 230 pounds for months now, whether or not I eat cheeseburgers or yogurt for dinner.

This is my body. My mirror sees me. I say it out loud.

“I am beautiful.”

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