on being chronically online
More and more I am seeing people I admire, follow, and know starting newsletters. Most are on Substack (the platform I am writing to you from now), but some are through ones own website or another digital platform.
This shift towards long form, open ended sharing feels right to me. I get it. It makes sense. Where do we put the thoughts, ideas, recommendations, hopes, dreams that are too big for an Instagram caption? What about the uncomfy poems and anguished essays that don’t fit neatly into the algorithm?
I myself look at my Substack world as a place of peace. No ads. No memes. No silly reels or confronting infographics. I can think clearly and read my peers work. I can create my own.
I continue to wrestle with, as I have for the last 10 years, my addiction with being online. This addiction is mostly in regards to Instagram, but even when I’m able to delete the app for periods of time I always find something else on my phone to take its place. Pinterest becomes the new Instagram, and when I delete Pinterest I become all consumed by Facebook Marketplace, OfferUp and Depop: the trifecta of things I want but can’t afford. And when it’s time to banish those three I’ll comb through my photos app, absentmindedly deleting screenshots, reminiscing on good times, accidentally triggering myself when a photo of a high school boyfriend or ex-friend pops up.
One could say I suffer from an affliction of being chronically online.
The last month [October ‘23], however, has been exceptionally tough. There is something deeply dystopian about scrolling through Instagram stories of friends at concerts and influencers fit pics to infographics detailing the thousands of children killed or photos of whole neighborhoods reduced to dust. There is a sickness that settles in my stomach every time I double tap a “like” onto a photo of bodies buried under rubble or mothers screaming for their lost children.
There’s a trauma in this. Of being able to put it all to the side simply by avoiding the news app or certain followers. More and more this past month I have found myself yearning to forget and falling, as if pulled by some imaginary white rabbit, into the never ending pit of reels— hundreds of videos flashing before my eyes in such quick succession I forget there’s anything to be upset about in the first place. Recommendations of restaurants to try around LA. Conspiracy theories on whether or not Brittney Spears is still alive. AI Harry Potter characters twerking to a house remix of a bit of punchy dialogue from the first movie. What were we talking about again?
And yet I’m part of it. Assuming the role of dutiful world citizen only when I wake up and feel brave enough. Logging off zoom calls at work only to cry for the rest of the day. Going about my days, capturing the best bits, posting them for those who elect to follow me, and secretly (guiltily) hoping that I’ll get a few likes or responses to whatever I’ve shared. This is how you connect with your community is always what I tell myself. You can’t walk away from this.
Yet I want to. I would love to walk away. Not from world events or cries for revolution and freedom. Not from the communities and friends I love. Not from things that make me laugh, bring me joy, inspire me. But from the algorithms. The insatiable, never satisfied numbing feeling that being online in this way fuels. The knee-jerk reaction to check the comments so I don’t have to think for myself. The envy of seeing someone else succeeding. The rollercoaster of meme, trauma, outfit picture, horror, clothing ad, violence that is thrown at us day in and day out.
I don’t really have a solution yet. I haven’t worked it out. For now I keep reminding myself that real life happens offline. That there are other spaces of community (perhaps this one, though still online) that can be cultivated and nurtured. That there are other places to get your news from and stay informed. That grieving is global and communal and permeates into your psyche and demands that you take a step back and rest even when you feel like you can’t.
For now, my one little change is to not look at my phone first thing when I wake up. I try not to look at it until after I’ve had my coffee and my breakfast. It’s honestly shifted my energy a ton, and if it feels right to you, I invite you to join me.
