Deleting Instagram and the Performance of Happiness
I took it. The final step.
Yep, I deleted Instagram. And no, I didn’t just get rid of the app. I didn’t temporarily disable the account. I took the plunge and deleted my account- fully- forever.
Allow me to describe the moment when one finally presses delete: you click that red button, you get the notification making sure this is really what you want to do. You say yes. And then, when you read that screen saying that it’s really gone, an immeasurable amount of weight is lifted from your shoulders.
The feeling was unexpected. I expected some degree of relief, but my mood was instantaneously elevated, so much so that I was inspired enough to sit down and start writing this very piece!
And this is why, I think, I was happy: I was relieved of the responsibility of performing. In addition, I no longer had to worry about being perceived through a lens of inauthenticity. There was no chance of anyone viewing my profile and assessing my life. There was no musing about who was following me and who was not. It all just evaporated.
Here, we come to the thing I really want to identify. Performing.
I feel like the subject has been beaten to death by now, but it’s no less true than the first time it was said: the world we present on Instagram isn’t a real one. In my last Instagram post, for example, I was not myself. I was at my most slender. Posed perfectly in front of the camera, showing off an angle that makes me look like I have a toned stomach (I most definitely do not). My eyeliner was winged out to heaven, my skin packed under a coating of makeup. A smirk was on my face, indicating happiness.
But the reality? Much different. I had been crying the whole day. I didn’t get out of bed until 5 pm! I dressed myself for the picture, caked myself in makeup so I could convince myself that I was pretty for a moment, when in reality, I had puffy eyes and messied hair. I wanted comments from others, calling me beautiful and validating my right to exist. I’d gorged myself on garlic pita chips shortly after the photo was taken.
But think about someone looking at the post. Maybe they’re having a bad day. Maybe they also couldn’t get out of bed until 5 pm. They see it, they think, “Wow, Tess is doing great. Tess is confident. My life sucks. I wish I was productive.”
And then they post a picture themselves, performing happiness, whatever that means to them; beauty, maybe opulence. Thus, the (buzzword alert) *toxic* cycle of Instagram is perpetuated. A magical world where everyone looks happy and perfect, but the grim underbelly is a system of envy and self-degradation. Wake up, think about how your life isn’t their life, hate your own. Pretend. The reality is, everyone is rotting on the inside, and no one likes themselves very much.
This leads to us constantly thinking about being perceived. What does so and so think of what I just posted? Why did so and so just unfollow me? God, I need to unfollow some people! My ratio is off!
For me, this kind of hyperfixation on others’ perception of my reality has led to a constant tension. I am constantly aware that I’m performing, even when I’m asleep. A representation of myself was consistently available to be scrutinized- one that doesn’t even authentically capture who I am! Who thinks I’m ugly? Who thinks I’m pretty? Who thinks I’m lame? Who thinks I’m cool?
This was the kind of undercurrent with which I could no longer live. So, I eliminated the static and took a step closer to reality. Maybe you’ll consider doing the same and remove the undercurrent of your own. Just think, Justin Bieber could be on your Instagram right now, forming an opinion about you… yeah, better go delete.
