My abusive relationship with social media
Can you read this in one sitting?
Fresh out of university and perched on the front verandah of a rental in Mount Gravatt, I read several novels by John Steinbeck: Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, and Of Mice and Men, one after the other. William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying followed soon after. A few months later, the iPhone landed in Australia, and I was the first in our friendship group to own one.
I sat on that same verandah and felt its sleek, metallic surface. I was hypnotised, even aroused.
Over fifteen years later, I am lying on my bed with a copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse in my hands. Her genius is immediate, but her prose requires more cognitive effort than the manga, comic books and genre stuff I’ve come to rely on. I blame my children for not allowing me the space and mental real estate to read heavier books these days.
I haven’t completed a page before I think I should put it down and put a picture of myself reading the book on Instagram. It will show how erudite I am and enforce my intellectual ego.
I hate myself, hate the thought, and hate my phone all in the same instant. Has my attention become so short, so fragmented, that I can barely complete a sen-
My feed.
Movie stars Sydney Sweeney, and some other guys name their four favourite horror films.
An ad for Palace Cinemas.
A joke about astrology.
Quotes from Scott Morrison.
An ad for the Smith family.
A post from a mate about her health that becomes clear is actually an ad for a workshop she’s conducting.
An ad for Hot Cross Buns.
Some statistics about the video game Baulder’s Gate 3.
A British radio presenter I have no relationship with tearfully says goodbye to her audience.
An ad for a theatre show in Melbourne.
An opinion about the remake of Road House starring Jake Gyllenhaal.
I don’t know when it changed or if it was always shit from the start. But I found a diary from 2015. I was trying to quit back then. That’s nine years of trying to quit and failing: uninstalling and reinstalling. Trashing accounts and starting again.
I said goodbye to Twitter, thank God. I briefly flirted with TikTok and was almost eaten alive. YouTube shorts and Insta reels attempt to copy TikTok’s success, and they work, even in spite of human will. Now it seems I can’t even finish a -
My reels.
A comedian I don’t like doing a bit about Disney princesses.
Clips that show off someone’s trips to Florence, Italy.
Someone talking about 90’s Aussie kid’s show, The Genie from Down Under (which I did watch and did love).
An ad for a couples photographer.
Two women I don’t know talking about aging.
Instagram encouraging me to create my own reels.
Someone’s travel video in New Zealand.
An ad for software called Motion.
An indie publisher looking for authors.
An animated video about finding happiness.
The conversation about mental health and social media generally revolves around unhealthy comparisons and depression. The effect on women’s body image has been cataclysmic. Statistics for teenagers are abominable. In the US, the release of social media on smartphones correlates with a breathtaking rise in self-harm and attempted suicide among teenagers, particularly girls.
This is outlined in a Netflix documentary called The Social Dilemma, which features various interviews with developers inside these massive companies. Their message is so unified they could sing harmoniously: these technologies are designed to be as addictive as possible. We want to keep your eyes on our app, and we have several trillion data points about what works and what doesn’t. We have crafted something stronger than any human being’s will.
I’d like to think I’ve separated myself from too much comparative analysis. But I think of the fitness accounts I follow with buff guys or the endless stream of theatre colleagues who post about success. I’m not a good enough person to feel happy for them. My first thought, always, is jealousy, and then self-hate. I am not doing enough.
But the more poisonous bug has been the splintering of my attention. The ability to sit and-
YouTube shorts.
A comedian doing a bit about her German mother.
Drag queens Katy and Tricia talking to each other.
A woman cleaning a desk chair.
A clip from a romantic comedy film.
A video of a man cleaning.
A poem about racism.
Comedian Jimmy Carr.
A toddler attempts to get on a couch.
A clip from the television show Utopia.
Billie Eilish talking about how she wrote the song for Barbie.
Of course, being an artist means being online. One needs to be on social media ‘for the sake of your brand.’
I’ve had books turned down by publishers and agents because I have fewer than 10,000 followers on Instagram. Many actors have lost out on roles because their competitors have bigger followers.
Last year, I crested over a thousand. Every few months I contemplate putting together a plan to increase it. Film myself and post shit. Join the barrage of noise. I can’t bring myself to do it. It feels like it would take more time away from me doing what I want to do (coaching, teaching, writing, providing therapy). I don’t want to spend more time promoting my shit than just doing my shit.
Steve Martin said, ' Be so good they can’t ignore you.’ Just do your thing well, and the rest will come. That’s always made sense to me.
But I’m less and less sure it’s true.
My phone is no longer useful. It doesn’t help me. It feels more and more like a tumour growing on my palm.
I can’t even remember what I opened it for this time.
Check e-mails.
A new subscriber to Substack.
A notification from Amazon.
A substack I follow but don’t read.
A monthly invoice for my website.
An update from The New York Times that I won’t read.
A newsletter that features spiritually profound poetry. I should read it. I don’t.
An e-mail from Amazon that a package has been delivered.
An e-mail from a shipping company letting me know that that package has, yes, confirmed, been delivered.
I’m listening to a podcast between Brenee Brown and Esther Perel. They talk about phones and community.
What else is love, they ask, if not attention?
A casual contract work supervisor texts me about work on Saturday night, as I am putting my children to bed.
The new plan. Get off Instagram. Deleted. Facebook hasn’t been there for ages (although I always check it through the browser).
Phone will only be on between nine and five on weekdays. I will listen to podcasts through the tablet.
New plan.
Maybe I can do it this time.
Maybe.
I’m halfway through Virginia Woolf's book. It turns out she’s very good—better, even, than anything on my reels, in my inbox, or on YouTube shorts.
Great read, Dave…..ironically, i was scrolling through reels procrastinating, when your article notification came up. I read this in one sitting, though. Hope is not all lost 😂💁🏻