Back in the 2010s, I thought it was simple. I’d just dip in and out. Just a couple of hours a day, nothing too intense. “I’ve got this”, I’d chuckle to myself, convinced of my absolute control of the situation. Then, as more time passed, I became like a network of wires, tangled and forever dependent on the buzz and thrum of other networks.
It was fine though. Just one or two posts. What harm could it do? It’s only opinions. It’s only mild jealousy of other people’s holidays, lifestyles, food. I can handle it. Spoiler: I couldn’t.
As someone with anxiety, the compunction grew like weeds, until machine and woman were inextricably linked, like codependent and abuser. I ignored the red flags at first, until vast swathes of my day were disappearing. Deadlines were being sidelined. I was officially a social media addict, posting political rants, Bowie songs, Alan Partridge clips, and agreeing the shit out of other posts. This is the lie: that we’re all connected. We’re not. It only serves to alienate and create echo chamber enmeshment.
So I unplugged . It wasn’t easy at first, disengaging. Fresh air, opinions that didn’t align with my own. What was this madness? It was reality, or at least one facet of it, unencumbered by the algorithm. And for the first time in a year or so, I exhaled.
Hit The North 