I think I have been online since I was about twelve. It felt like I logged on when the internet was truly coming alive: MSN chatrooms, clunky websites, AIM messenger, and lest we forget, the music download sites that would inevitably crash the family computer. I have always been drawn to logging my thoughts online rather than physically writing them out. Remember Xanga? Or LiveJournal (She’s still kickin’.)? I know science says it is best to hand write, but I have always felt more present and open with a blinking cursor staring back at me.
I have always loved the endless feeling of the internet. Even when my mom was convincing me that I was going to be kidnapped for being on MySpace (legitimate concerns now that I am a parent). At 36-years-old, the internet feels entirely different. Some of it may be based on getting older and existing in the real world, knowing what lurks in the corners of the World Wide Web. I still enjoy posting all my thoughts, watching and catching up with friends, or reposting the silly frog says it’s tired. Really, the internet can be anything you want it to be.
It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I felt the internet became too big for me. I posted an opinion to my personal Instagram that unraveled a follower to the point of calling my employer. My job is OK but my sense of self and safety within the boundless internet – even on a private Instagram account – felt and still feels so vulnerable. I felt completely violated. After realizing what happened, I mass deleted followers, hoped the person involved was also deleted, and deactivated the account. I spent the next two weeks hypervigilant; I feared for my family. I felt like I was going to open my front door to violence. At the time, I was under eight weeks postpartum. I was a ball of anxiety.
The internet used to be fun.
People are talking about the unavoidable arrival of the dead internet. With bot farms and AI, it’s not hard to believe in this eventuality. After the personal incident, I keep telling friends I don’t know who to trust, and I am beginning to question what is even real online. Sure, there are the easier posts to spot that a Boomer parent will try to convince you is totally true. When I am asking myself what is real, it’s the part of me that believes we could all just be pins in a pinball machine.
Inflamed by the Next Big Event, we are shot up to bounce and ping – respond – to the loudness. And, my god, have I been good at that.
But then the Next Big Event did happen and the response made the internet utterly terrifying.
I will not get into leanings of left or MAGA, how a response can be right or wrong. Or, in my case, perhaps subjectively insensitive. However, I do believe we have arrived at our critical mass of feeling psychologically safe on the internet.
The only way I know how to respond now is to live and trust my friends that encircle me now. To try to go back to a time when I posted for the sake of being silly. And I don’t say this to ignore the real world that feels so extraordinarily heavy. I think my friends who know me on a cellular level will correctly assume my response to the Next Big Event without my need to post a response. While I am sad and angry about what happened, I am grateful for the wake-up. I do not want to be a pinball to the powers that be.
You may see my posts will be different now. Sometimes I may post something glib when it feels heavy. Please know that I am feeling the heaviness as well. In that moment, though, maybe I just felt like the silly frog with boots on brought me a moment of joy. And because I am me, I wanted that for you, too.
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