“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.”
― George Orwell, 1984
Today, November 21st, 2019, is actually one month and four days after my last trollop through the world of social media. I know this solely because the last thing I saw on my Facebook page was a link posted to me by a coworker I haven’t seen in two years or more. The link she shared was very sweet, and very specific to my interests, and I hesitated to deactivate my account for fear that she would think I was ignoring her. To my recollection, it is the only time she has shared a link on my timeline, and the first contact we have had since working together that didn’t involve something as simplistic as “CUTE!!!” on each other’s posts of our respective children.
Why would this give me pause? Why would a person that I have nothing more in common with than previous work experience and stated gender stop me from making a decision I had already concluded?
Before you read any further, let me set the record straight. I am, by all accounts, a nobody. I did not have 5,000 friends on Facebook. I had 332 (22 pending requests of people who were mutual friends or from countries far outside my realm of basic knowledge.) I did not have a million followers on my Instagram account pining to see my latest photographic magic, but rather 400. My Twitter page was a pseudonym created solely to follow celebrity drama, and had still managed to amass 44 followers, most likely bots. I am a 38 year old mother of teens, a wife of thirteen years, and a caretaker to my mother. And I dutifully and unabashedly shared my buffalo cauliflower plating and running mile per minutes times in the way that I assumed everyone else did, for the sheer reason that a digital age of transparency asks to see what you had for lunch.
To continue my previous talk of long lost coworkers, I actually replied to the link posted on my timeline, and delayed deactivating my account by 24 hours to make sure the other person had seen my reply and knew that I was touched by it. Touched by a link, a generalized copy and paste that someone had taken the time out of their technological day to share with me. Someone that I would exchange only a wave or the briefest of cordial conversation with were we to pass each other in the grocery store. This isn’t to say I don’t like the sharer, quite the opposite. I like her in the way you like most of your acquaintances, the most superficial bond of all.
Herein lies my problem. Blame it on age. Blame it on the fact that I grabbed a copy of Edward Snowden’s new book. Blame it on wasted hours of internet research that convinced me Facebook and Google and Instagram and a myriad of other websites were spying on me or tracking me or persuading me to buy things I had previously had no interest in, based on algorithms and likes and links and clicks and shares. Blame it on paranoia. Blame it on boredom with the mainstream. Blame it on regret. Blame it on misguided fingers reaching to friendships and connections that would have been lost in the throes of life 30 years ago. When social media hit its peak, I was not of the, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” mindset. I was of the, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Thirteen years ago, MySpace gave a then 25 year old me a place to belong. A place to introduce people to the person I wanted the world to know I was, through personalized music and digital stickers and stolen quotes, and I was ready for it.
It may seem hypocritical that I have chosen to start a blog, when I most likely will be dismissing all the most amazing aspects of social media. To connect to the entire world with a name and a password would be so mind boggling to the person I was twenty years ago, it seems presumptuous and downright ungrateful to not fully embrace it for all its technological wonder. Yet here I am, listening to 1980’s music and wishing I still stared up at the stars in the evening, rather than the dim glow of a cellphone or computer. I have no reason to convince anyone else to delete their social media accounts, I simply want to ruminate on the life that happens after I deleted mine.
This blog isn’t dedicated to finding followers, though I would be amiss to say I wouldn’t enjoy knowing that one or two people out there stumbled upon it and read it. In my dreams, as I approach the other side of my forty years on this earth and start to see a life where my children are grown and my husband I begin to claim a life that isn’t full of homework and home-cooked dinners, I want to be a writer. Full disclosure, a quick internet search of tips for becoming a better writer include starting a blog, so here I am. I will write, and I will document this life that isn’t documented through chosen snippets and quotes from authors I haven’t read. I will write until I hone my skills, until I look at a sunset and don’t wonder what caption would fit best under it, until I don’t wonder how many likes my friends received on their date night photos, until I can fully release the pull that social media had on my life, while exploring the changes it may have made that I was blissfully unaware of. Perhaps it will come off as crass, as paranoid, as attention seeking, as biased, but it will be mine, and I will put one last bit of myself into the void of the World Wide Web.
I am, as of yet, mostly unfamiliar with the workings of blog posting. Any margin errors or misplaced spaces or lackluster photos will most likely begin to improve with time.
A Life Without Social Media 