On Sunday, July 24th I had a breakthrough. I had taken a THC gummy and was sitting in the passenger seat of my sister’s car as we drove down I-95 from Connecticut to New York and as I stared out at the sun setting over the power lines that hummed past in a 65-mile-an-hour blur, listening to Harry Styles sing “As It Was,” something clicked into place about a personal struggle I’ve been wrestling with for decades. It was one of those simple realizations that make you wonder why you never saw it before. I’m tempted to make fun of how long it took me to have a very basic breakthrough that, if I wrote it into a screenplay, would look like bad and lazy writing, but that’s just how life is sometimes: you can’t see something clearly until you’re ready, even if it’s obvious and right in front of you. Or, maybe, when you’re super high.
Anyway, the next morning I deleted Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook from my phone, and blocked them on my laptop. The breakthrough had nothing to do with social media, but I’d been thinking about taking a breather for awhile, and I felt like the breakthrough was telling me that the time was ripe for a psychological detox. The timing turned out to bite me in the ass, though, because I instantly started feeling like I broke open--not gracefully like a flower blooming in the background of an inspirational Instagram quote, more like an egg cracked haphazardly into a frying pan, kinetic and exposed and messy. And then I thought, Fuck, am I feeling this raw and vulnerable because of my emotional breakthrough or because of fucking Instagram withdrawal? The former seemed poetic and profound, the latter incredibly depressing.
I don’t like to think too hard about my social media use, because it’s excessive. True story: I bought a book called “How to Break Up With Your Phone” and had just started reading it in March 2020 when I quickly determined that I had picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue… I mean, scrolling endlessly. If I had been tethered to my phone before Covid, hoo boy, did I double down during quarantine! All screen time rules, for myself and for my children, went out the window. We were in survival mode and, apparently, posting selfies was key to my survival. I’m not proud of this, but I’m also not particularly ashamed. As I’ve previously written, I don’t see social media as negatively as a lot of people do. I don’t take it too seriously, and I like using it, for the most part. As someone whose career depends on getting the attention of strangers, and who enjoys that attention as long as it happens at a digital remove, I was born for Instagram, which I have come to view as a kind of a stage for me to perform on. If that sounds fucked up to you, congratulations, you are probably more emotionally healthy than I am. But that is my truth.
I love being validated on social media. I love being liked, I love being loved, and I love being laughed at. Having not published a book since 2016 (I blame Trump), one-liner captions and jokey tweets and Facebook status updates have become my primary public writing outlet. It’s hard to write a novel or a screenplay, especially during a pandemic with young children, but it’s easy to churn out one sentence at a time, especially when you already know that your “audience” is primed to respond with instant positive feedback. I often joke that I’m grateful social media didn’t exist in my teens and early twenties, but honestly, I’m thirstier now than I ever was back then. In my early forties I have fallen in love with myself in a way that just wasn’t possible two decades ago, before I did all the hard work of growing up, going to therapy, and making so many missteps across so many areas of my life that I was able to write a memoir about it at age 35. Now, looking at Instagram can sometimes feel like I am Narcissus gazing at his reflection, except with no punishment awaiting me. I crave validation and I thrive on it. But even I do not have my head so far up my own ass that I don’t occasionally wonder, what is all this distracting me from?
I am generally a pro-distraction person, in moderation. I appreciate the benefits of unplugging and I think avoiding painful emotions through the abuse of any substance, whether it’s booze or drugs or screens, often keeps us trapped in unhealthy places, but I also think that we are living through impossibly stressful times that make the experience of being a human being on planet Earth nearly unbearable, and that some people need to chill the fuck out with the demand that we be fully present all the goddamn time. I’ve read a lot of essays and memoirs about recovery--from eating disorders, from alcoholism, from narcotics, from co-dependence and “saying yes” and a million other destructive habits big and small--and while the life-or-death stakes vary greatly, there is a sanctimonious redemptive arc that nearly all of them share. I want to tread carefully, because of course I believe that there is incredible bravery in quitting something that harms you, either physically or emotionally, and that there is a difference between opioid addiction and using the word “sorry” too much in emails. But sometimes the culture of self-help can make it seem like the goal for any evolved human is to lock into a Marina Abramović-level stare with the world and never let go, under pain of spiritual death. When did “numbing out” become such a shameful concept?
I remember listening to an interview recently with a successful young documentary filmmaker who quit drinking. She was describing the many positive changes it had made in her life, singling out the fact that now she was able to be much more productive and get more work done at night, when her friends were out at bars. At night? I thought bitterly, probably sipping my own evening glass of wine. Why the fuck should we be expected to be productive at night? I’ve been part of a mother’s group for years where the participants often chide themselves for using social media, or alcohol, or streaming service binges to unwind after their kids go to bed. These women aren’t alcoholics or phone addicts; they just opt to zone out during the few precious hours they have to themselves at the end of a long day. And they feel awful about it. They believe they should be doing yoga, or guided meditation, or having deep, meaningful conversations with their longterm partners (LOL). And while those things are all great, I keep finding myself wanting to scream “CAN’T A BITCH JUST NUMB OUT FOR A WHILE AND HAVE IT BE OKAY???”
As I write this, it has only been 10 days since I took a break from social media and already it’s harshing my numb. Without Instagram, Twitter, or even the far inferior Facebook to scroll through and post on, if I want to dick around on my phone I have to read the New York Times or check my email (sad) or check my bank account balance (sadder). I’ve been reading more books and print magazines, which is probably better for my eyesight and general literacy, and I’ve been more “present” with my children I guess, but mostly that just means sitting next to them and pretending to be invested in whatever Scooby Doo episode they’re watching while secretly doing the crossword on my phone. At least I still have podcasts, without which I would be truly adrift. Today I reorganized the space under the bathroom sink, carefully arranging all of the cleaning products and expired medications. I’m really not sure this life is any richer.
Then again, I don’t really miss social media, which is shocking to me. I haven’t peeked at it even once since I deleted the apps, and I’ve barely felt the urge to try. It felt, and still feels, like I closed the door on a loud party and walked outside by myself, finally able to hear myself think. I’ve also been relieved at not having to create content for other people’s consumption. By the way, I hate—hate—that word, “content,” which is meaningless corporate-speak, but when you are someone who regularly mines her own life for public entertainment value, it ends up being the only one that fits. I think the biggest upside of my social media detox is not sharing every mundane detail of my day just because I can, or trying to put a comic spin on real feelings (my therapist has pointed out more than once that I laugh when I talk about serious things; clearly I lean hard on humor as a coping mechanism). I’ve also been taking fewer photos, because when my kids do something cute or I see something out in the world that I think is funny, I realize that there’s no need to document them. I can just, like, notice them. And then keep that joy or amusement to myself. What a concept!
That redemptive arc I mentioned earlier? Man, it’s tempting to lean into it. I’d like to be able to say that I’ve learned something profound about myself, that I’m a much healthier, happier person already, and that I’ll be quitting social media not just for a month (my goal), but [cue Squints’ voice from The Sandlot] for-ev-er. Sadly, even if I wanted to, that’s not an option. As a freelance writer, I need to build an audience. I need to keep gaining followers so that if I ever manage to finish another book, publishers will feel confident that thousands of people will buy it. But that’s not really why I’m on social media, even if it makes a convenient excuse. My mother has an embarrassing story she likes to tell, about when she tried to wean me. She told me it was time to stop nursing and I frowned up at her and said, “But Mommy—I like it.” (Yes, I was old enough to speak in full sentences, and may or may not have already started kindergarten—don’t worry about it, I’m in therapy.) Anyway, that’s what it boils down to: I like it.
I like noticing something about myself or my kids or the world and sharing it with people instantly. I like coming up with a perfect, witty caption. I like sharing pictures of myself that make me feel cute or hot or relatable. I like staying up until midnight inexplicably scrolling through some celebrity’s profile to decide for myself if they’ve had plastic surgery (just kidding, I’m ashamed of that, but I’m willing to accept it as a side effect). I guess the biggest takeaway I’ve had so far (again, 10 whole days, killing it!) is that I like oversharing on social media, but that I need to work on the value—if any—I give to the validation I get back. If, fundamentally, I’m posting for my own enjoyment, it shouldn’t matter if anyone sees it, let alone likes it.
I’m going on vacation soon, the same vacation I have taken with my family for almost every summer of my life, and I’m looking forward to what it will feel like to unplug more fully than I have in years past. Days at the beach, walks on the jetty, evenings watching sunsets from the deck as children run naked on the lawn, witnessed by no one but the people who are there. Will I be able to relax more fully, unencumbered by the need to shape my private life into bite-sized pieces for public consumption? Or will I gaze out at the night sky, possibly (probably) high on a gummy, and wish I could capture the moment, fitting it snugly into the Instagram grid of my life, an ever-evolving collage that is forming some bigger picture of who I am and want to be, still fuzzy sometimes but slowly, slowly, coming into view.