SHE SPEWED
Renouncing Instagram as a Vanity Project
I joined Instagram at 15 and retired from the platform at the ripe old age of 17. At 22, I am by all accounts a social anomaly for not being on Instagram (or any other social media platform for that matter). Attempts have been made over the years by friends to get me back on the social media train but I have refused to put out. The standard reply when questioned on my aversion has been a shrug of the shoulders and an offhand remark to save explaining myself.
I am not confident enough to publicly share myself with hundreds of people. Back when I was but a wee teenager pliable to social pressures, I tried so hard to be cool. I quickly learned that as a person, I was (and still am) too mundane and grossly underwhelming. I needed to go out of my way to manufacture ‘Instagram worthy’ moments to share online: screen through photos of the same shot for the one frame I looked best in, cosmetically reconstruct a moment by slapping on a filter, toggle with its settings and wrack my brains for a quick-witted caption. I was curating my life and there was absolutely nothing authentic, candid or honest about it. It made me feel like a fraud, and a fraud I refused to be.
Implicit in the premeditation was the presumption that I needed to censor myself for approval. As much as you can flippantly state “I don’t care what people think of me”, it is impossible to completely not care. Well, at least for my teenage self. I resented that I could not bring myself to be myself online. Metrics and shallow engagements were influencing the way I felt. I sought external validation and my self-worth rested in the hands of others. Literally. My participation on Instagram had tacitly granted others control over the way I perceived myself — my sense of self attached to their judgement. I was vulnerable. A dependent. And I didn’t like it.
Insecurities aside, there was also the unwritten social contract that whatever posted on a public domain is fair game. In uploading my life, I had consented to come under the scrutiny and judgement of people who know me, and people who only know of me. I wanted to be myself but I cared too much. Even when I tried not to care, social media etiquette demanded I had to. I needed to be my own moderator and be mindful of my audience. Was this socially appropriate? Am I being culturally sensitive?
All of it felt like a self imposed gag order, a compromise of self and I couldn’t do it. I quit. I removed myself from the culture of social media I could not reconcile with. My Instagram profile was nothing more than a vanity project which allowed me to compensate for my insecurities. Each post was a methodological attempt at constructing an ideal image to control the light I was perceived in. It was never about keeping in touch with the people I cared about, because double taps and comments (this was before the time of DMs and stories) were an incredibly tasteless way of socialising.
Sharing yourself with an audience requires a substantial ego to operate. It requires the self-assumption that people care about you: the places you’ve travelled, the people you hang out with or the food you eat. There’s an element of narcissism involved which I’ve come to realise I’m better off not indulging in.
I view my abstinence from Instagram as an unendorsement of its vapid and demanding practices. I have learned to value myself too much to grant open access to an audience. But of course, I speak only for myself in sharing my experience into the world of Instagram. I do wonder at times if I’m perhaps a social coward attempting to justify myself as an anti social. But who knows? All I can say is: I’ll be sticking to my life of blissful obscurity, offline.
