On January first of this year, I gave up social media. Well, truth be told I made the decision a few days prior but thought the first made a nice clean break so gave myself a few days of last indulgence.
I had read an article in The Atlantic with the subtle title of “The Singularity is Here: Artificially Intelligent Advertising Technology is Poisoning our Societies.”
The link is probably behind a paywall. Sorry. The gist of the article is what you already know. The algorithms, largely existing on and powered by social media, have gone from sophisticated aids of capitalism to insidious tools of one big social lobotomy. Through social media—the lucrative stickiness of having one’s opinion echoed back to herself over and over again in perfect conditions—we are being manipulated not just into buying that double stitch leather jacket you didn’t need, but so much worse. There is no room for nuance, discourse, for the type of wisdom that welcomes, indeed relies on, contradiction. If you don’t make sense, if absolutely everything you telegraph doesn’t toe the line, left or right, you’re admonished. Ridiculed. Canceled.
I’m not here to rehash the article nor am I here to rally against cancel culture. Social media has problems; we know this. It’s also done a lot of good and amplified previously unheard voices. The point is, it’s not for me anymore. Having little to do with the reasons outlined in the article, however harrowing and eye-opening they may be.
The truth, for me. is that social media preyed on my greatest fear—being forgotten. Certain I have always been the type of person who faded easily, I have done what I could over the years to make myself more visible. Bright hair. Colorful clothes. Bubbly personality. ACTOR. “See. Me. Remember me. Define me.” What I didn’t let myself realize is that in promoting this persona through social media over the past two decades, I have allowed myself to believe it’s truly who I am. The selfies and the quips. The number of likes. Red notification bubbles. The higher the number, the greater the rush of my fear abated. I am remembered. I am seen. I never knew—I never allowed myself to know—that all along, fading was kind of my thing. My power.
When I picture ideal writing conditions, I see a dark place with a small light and no one around. I am alone, hidden, perhaps even underground. I am burrowed, and in this place my mind is free.
I have the inclination to retreat so far into myself that I forget how to speak. It’s why I don’t smoke pot anymore because that’s what happens. I lose the ability to speak. I am so far inside myself, it’s like I’m watching a movie of my own life, and I can’t converse with the characters on the screen even if they’re yelling at me to do so. I clearly have a tendency toward the internal. I am pointed in, and it has led to a lot of fruitless navel gazing. Frankly, I’m tired of that too.
I don’t want to promote my life anymore. I don’t need to know where my lab partner in high school went on vacation last year, or that the guy I met at a wedding ten years ago just lost his dog. If I must look up our mutual friends to be reminded of how I know you, why am I telling you about my precious life milestones? So that I’ll know there is someone out there who remembers me. Only now do I realize, it’s who remembers me that matters most.
Look, some bodies can handle alcohol and some can’t. Some minds can handle social media, and some are not a good match. If being easily forgotten is one of your worst fears, you too might find yourself kissing the robes of the Facebook demon that has promised you a concrete and self-perpetuating platform for memorability. They like me. They really like me.
Here’s what I’ve done since I gave up social media:
- Finished a daily crossword puzzle
- Crocheted a purse, two pillows, a basket, a hat, and one sock
- Talked to my husband more
- Practiced French on Duolingo daily (could be argued this IS a form of social media but I won’t be the one to argue it)
- Played an actual board game (Ticket to Ride).
- Decreased my screen time by 50%
- Read more books
- Journaled
- Did I mention the crocheting?
Here’s what I haven’t done more of since I gave up social media:
- Write
I’m working on it.
I’d like to get back to blogging. Gosh, Blog seems like such an antiquated word already. I remember the first time I heard it. I was on an escalator rising out of the DC metro and my college friend wanted to tell me about a blog she discovered and I was struck by a distinct sense of wonder from encountering a brand new concept in the world. A blog. Now it’s something that sounds almost as old as VHS.
Still, it was for me. Blogging was never about showcasing myself. I never put that pressure on it. I enjoyed having a place to say things that took a bit more craft than a Facebook post and a lot longer than a Tweet. I do feel I have always had things to say. Over the years I’ve had a couple of posts go “viral” and yeah, there was a bit of a thrill in that. But it faded eventually. The urge to write never did. Blogging helped me be a better writer. A safe space to verbally spew with the tiniest bit of public accountability.
I won’t even be advertising this post anywhere since I’m not going to share it on socials. I imagine my mom might read it, so maybe it will find some eyes. She shall be my publicist from here on out. It doesn’t matter though. I’m taking something to heart, and that is that it’s okay to be a little bit invisible, especially for an artist who is interested in more than the self. In the messiness of being alive. The tension of two people trying to do the right thing with the exact opposite actions. I am very vivacious and colorful to my daughter, my husband, my nearest and dearest, even if my hair is no longer purple. They see me, and that’s enough.
For my part, I’m going to burrow for a while, not necessarily to reflect. Like I said, my mind is almost as weary from pondering as it is from telegraphing. I just want to be. Just be. Perhaps the pandemic was the invitation to do that, and for fear of the looming isolation, I flung myself further out into the internet to seek connection. I’ll take the invite now (though would happily bid farewell to the pandemic). I’ll retreat. I’ll find my dark hole, with my little candle and my imagination. I’ll just be . . . perfectly content with the possibility that no one else in the world will ever know about it.