Twitter is no place for the Highly Sensitive Person
I had just turned 31 when I saw a therapist for the first time.* I remember talking about how I had a hard time dealing with what I saw as “the punishment far outweighing the crime.” Over the course of that fifty minute hour, we teased out that this stemmed from experiencing my mother’s volatile temper over what anyone could objectively classify as the minor transgressions of a typical adolescent. My therapist told me that I was what was described as a “Highly Sensitive Person,” which I was completely unaware was even a thing a person could be, but it made so much sense when she told me that. I have been told throughout my entire life that I take things too seriously, or that I read malice into situations when no one else sees it, but now I had a term I could Google to learn about this condition.
When I was 18, the best selling book at the time was a self-help book called Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff… And It’s All Small Stuff. It was impossible for me to walk through a bookstore without thinking “Easier said than done, asshole.” Sweating small stuff was literally all that I did with my time. I also started to stutter in my late teenage years (which continued about into my early twenties), which meant that I almost all of my time awake was spent worrying that I might have to have a conversation with someone. “I hope I don’t have to talk to anyone today” was something I told myself every morning. It’s not the ideal way to go through life, but I found ways to get by.
Becoming a music blogger was great for me because the only positive thing I’ve ever believed about myself is that I’m intelligent. This gave me the chance to explore something in a cool medium while I could hide behind headphones or 120 dBs of live music. Getting invited to club shows for bands I’ve heard on the radio or read about in Rolling Stone or Spin was amazing to me. In fact, the first time I e-mailed a publicist asking for a review copy of a forthcoming CD, I was offered an interview with a member of my very favorite band. I got good enough at faking that I belonged in the music scene. Eventually, I went to enough shows in clubs that bartenders knew what I drank (vodka and cranberry juice). This started in around 2003 or 2004.
When I joined Twitter in April 2008, it felt like it opened up a whole new world for me because I could follow and interact with other music writers (all of whom were and are better writers and critics than I was and am), but it gave me the drive to want to be a better writer, and the 140 character limit forced me to become a better writer I was forced to being a more concise writer. It was one of the best things that ever happened to me, and it was my favorite place to hang out. I met a lot of friends through there, and one time I even won Flaming Lips tickets by answering a trivia question that I saw while checking Twitter in the restroom at work.
When Twitter became more and more ubiquitous and more of an instrument of justice, the things that triggered me in the real world, the things that I went online to escape, were now haunting me online, and it became far worse in my mind. I was excited to see the medium used as a means to fighting entrenched power. Reporters that I thought were stenographers for law enforcement were being called out for uncritically passing on biased information. People acting shitty in venues that were previously private were now being exposed. It was thrilling seeing a bad and powerful person taken down. Businesses were now accountable to someone other than shareholders.
Yet for all of the exciting new ways that the world was changing, it exacerbated my anxiety even more because I saw people who were a little tone deaf or aloof have their lives upended in ways that seemed unfair and arbitrary. I tried to follow a diverse group of writers of all ideologies, and found that following some had gotten me included on block lists. Someone was fired for whispering a joke that I might have laughed at to one of his friends. Jokes about “forking” are a running gag on my current favorite network TV show. I’ll never understand why “jokes” like this are forgiven…
…and this one is life-ruining:
When “privilege” became a buzzword that took over social media discourse, my anxiety more or less became permanent. I started taking antidepressants, and do believe they are life-saving in my case, but every tweet I saw about white privilege was a reminder to me that I’d never be a good enough person, no matter how hard I tried. If the Justine Sacco incident and the firing over dongle tweets told me that a misstep or a joke overheard by the wrong person, could ruin my life, the privilege talk told me that if that happened to me, I’d deserve it.
I genuinely believe that white privilege is a very real thing that needs to be fought daily. I am well aware that I’m very lucky for my lot in life, and had I been born something other than straight and Caucasian, my life would be much, much different and almost certainly not for the better. I very much want a more equitable and fair society where I can live my best life. I do not believe every discussion of privilege comes from a place of good faith, and it is often used as a cudgel online, but I don’t need to be convinced of its existence.
Having said that, and generally agreeing with 90% of what was coming through my feed, it was still a mindfuck for a Highly Sensitive Person who had low self esteem their entire life to be told they actually have had things too good for too long just as they are finding a place in the world where they feel somewhat welcome.
Everything I saw on Twitter that wasn’t a news item directly related to my interests was a referendum on my life or tastes. When a friend I know outside of the online world tweeted something about anyone criticizing a specific politician who might be running for president in 2020 is a tool who doesn’t value compassion, I thought, “Well, this particular politician has some things in their time as a prosecutor that I think are illiberal and need to be adjudicated before I pledge my support,” and therefore “my real-life friend thinks I’m a tool.”
And that’s how my mind operates. Most of my Twitter feed serves as a reminder to me in all the ways that I’m lacking as a person. If I see something that’s verifiably false within a subject I know a lot about, will I be called a “mansplainer” for offering a modest correction?
It’s not just on Twitter (or Facebook, which has its own problems for compatibility with a HSP). Last year, I inquired about an interview with a publicist I ha a good working relationship with about someone in town to promote a movie. I was turned down and told that they were too busy to accommodate my request (though other requests were granted for writers of similar stature and reputation as me). I read that e-mail as another rejection that said, “My client is too famous for me to let you near, but you might be useful for some smaller projects I have coming up in the future.”
That’s another thing about the weird functionality and conditioning of my brain. I have this irrational (or rational, I don’t know) fear that I’m mostly judged on my usefulness to people.
Having said all of that above, I found it almost impossible to step away from Twitter, and some of the drama I even sought out for enjoyment, rationalizing that I was detached from it. My therapist and I came up with an idea a few years ago to take one day a week off of social media (that day is Thursday) and that was helpful in some respect, but still found myself exhausted from it the other six days.
Being a writer, and one who is just getting back into blogging for some reason I don’t completely understand right now given all that I said above this, I thought I had no choice but to be online all the time because I could stay current with what’s going on in the world, plus I could continue the relationships I have with people online, and find good stuff to read. I also follow a lot of funny people. All those things are true, of course, but I can’t escape the feeling that the tweets that pop up into my feed are a referendum on me personally, that I’m too white, or too male, or that I don’t hate Jonathan Franzen enough. My brain just won’t let me think anything else. It’s not #NotAllMen, it’s “Yes, all men, but especially you.”
Last week I had an epiphany that I didn’t need to subject myself to this inner torment. There are a lot of Tweets about all the problems that white men are responsible for (and I agree with that!), but one hit me particularly hard. It said something to the effect of how all white men are complicit in the patriarchy and therefore all white men are trash. I 100% understand that sentiment, but that it was retweeted by someone I’ve done lots of favors for (including inviting them to be my +1 to multiple sold out concerts). It certainly didn’t say “all white men are trash, but especially @chrisburlingame,” but it felt exactly like they did. Telling myself Bill O’Reilly has more culpability than I do wasn’t enough to stop me from crying at my desk. I know that it’s not charitable or very fair, or that my ego doesn’t operate inside of a vacuum, away from the world as it is. Moreover, I believe my fragile feelings are fine as collateral damage towards a more just society. It’s just that living through it in real time fucking sucks.
TL;DR: It’s not you, it’s me. It’s always been thus.
- For some sense of time and perspective, I turn 39 in a little over a week.
*One more thing: Journal of Precipitation is a new, Seattle-area arts and/or culture website that is dedicated to exploring the Pacific Northwest outside of the “usual places” and the cultural zeitgeist. We believe in compensating all of our contributors (even though it is probably modest, compared to larger websites and magazines). If you value what we’re doing, please consider contributing to our Patreon, and allow us to continue to grow and provide coverage of our community.
