A Departure from Social Media is Justified and Imminent

Ah, I’ve made it! Last year I was able to write two posts per month. This year I’ve cut that in half, and here I am, the second-to-last day of February, making my monthly declaration of opinions, airing of anxieties, and display of personal struggles.

The biggest development to share is that, after Jack and I celebrate our wedding in April, I’m going to delete my social media apps (just Facebook and Instagram, as I don’t use TikTok or Snapchat or any of the rest of them). I just can’t fucking hack it anymore. It is my belief that the human mind was not meant to consume this level of content, and all of it is a never-ending, constant stream that goes on forever. I look forward to the opportunity to focus my attention elsewhere, without the temptation to doom-scroll ceaselessly. I’ve been working on my first novel (“Daylight Fading”) for more than seven years at this point, and if I don’t do a better job managing my time, I’ll be in my 50s before I finally publish it. I hope that this is a successful experiment, where I fill the free time between my obligations and responsibilities with more reading, writing, and editing. And perhaps choreography, too. I have a sequel in the works (titled “Beneath the Mountain’s Gaze” which is currently just over 30,000 words), and frankly, a lot more I want to say as a climate activist beyond my fictional work. Something’s gotta give and I think the best thing for my mental health right now is to scrap social media.

This decision was spurred on by increasingly hostile behavior exhibited toward me in the form of an anonymous madman using the pseudonym “Truth First” to harass and threaten me in the comments section of the Trinity Journal. I’ve felt for years as though I’ve exhausted my usefulness on social media platforms, and the fact that I put myself out in the real world on a regular basis in a dangerous environment, makes me feel the distinct need to minimize my online presence beyond what is strictly necessary to promote my work. Truth First has written things like, “If you’re not on the Trump Train, you’ll be a bloody body on the tracks.” And, “Climate cannabis activists are not welcome in Trinity County. It’s time we start our own revolution. Unite.” This, after threatening to open fire against his cannabis-growing neighbors, after threatening to flame-throw and Paraquat their garden. Right-wing extremists are real, they are domestic terrorists, and they behave in dangerous and irrational ways. They are the scariest element of Trinity County, and of the United States more broadly.

I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have to be fighting this fight, arguing with people who cannot accept the physical and chemical consequences of our actions, the resulting death of the planet. We are an Icarus society, unwilling to see that the wax has melted, our feathers are flying off, and we are plunging toward our doom. Icarus fell into water. We won’t be so lucky. All of this is made worse knowing that some of my predecessors and ancestors and elders are STILL, after everything, still willing to vote for Donald Trump, the child-raping, serial-raping, lying, cheating, tax-dodging, grifting, abusive conman. How can I reason with people who, even with many children and grandchildren to think of, are doing everything they can to hasten our demise and make the future unlivable? Why, even as history repeats itself, are they standing firmly on the wrong side, on every issue?

These are questions I won’t get an answer to, especially not here. And that is by design. I don’t permit commenting on this blog because I don’t want to provide a platform for discussion here. That’s not what this is. I am conscientiously trying to retreat from online “discourse” because it is often abusive and fruitless. This is an open journal chronicling my struggles as a climate activist in the prime of my child-bearing years grappling with the grief and pain of knowing this way of societal living was always unsustainable and is unraveling underneath all of us. I just don’t even want to bother opening the doors to threats, violence, and cruelty. I want to create content in a space free of unsolicited input. I don’t care that my writing won’t travel far. This website exists on my terms and that’s the best anyone can ask for in a world where free will feels more like a faith-based illusion than a tangible result of our own choices.

I have hope that “retiring” from social media will bring more stillness to my mind, more quiet, less buzzing. In many things I am fairly disciplined, but in social media, I just scroll because it’s easy. It’s something to do, something passive, a tick to pass the time. It’s always there, ready and available. A cold-turkey strategy will be shocking, but perhaps the only one that can re-set my central nervous system. In the meantime, I’m still using Instagram and Facebook to communicate with distant friends, especially wedding guests, as it’s easier to reach out via multiple messaging apps. If one doesn’t work, another usually does. Wedding planning is both fun and stressful, and I’m definitely using all the tools at my disposal to share messages and information with as many people as possible until the big day arrives. It will be good, I think, to end my online tenure on a “high note” of love, hope, and friendship shared between the most important people in my life, Jack’s life, and our shared life.

It feels bittersweet, walking away from a technology I’ve used for nearly 14 years. But I know a good number of people who aren’t on Facebook or Instagram and they seem very happy with their decision. I admire them. Each one is an exceptionally great human. Sure, there are other factors at play, but I think they’ve definitely served themselves well by not getting suckered into scrounging about Zuckerberg’s attractive and never-ending rat maze. Ideally, I’ll have more time to catch up with my friends in a more in-depth manner: phone calls and video calls. Hopefully I’ll experience growth pursuing my favorite hobbies. Maybe I’ll even pick up a new hobby. It would be stellar to learn to make focaccia bread. Biscuits. Anything baked, really. I’m . . . not a gifted food-maker in any sense of the word. There’s much room for improvement.

I can’t imagine much more than maybe 10 people end up checking this website out. And again, that’s not a disappointment or a blow to my ego, but rather a relief knowing I can document my messy, frazzled brain, and not feel self-conscious about any of it. The world is so fucked up and scary right now. Russia invaded Ukraine. Thirteen million people in Yemen are heading toward starvation. Shasta and Trinity Lakes are dangerously low right now, so low we might reach “dead pool” and be unable to generate hydroelectricity from lack of water. I’m so tired and angry that this is the planet our forebears have left for us to inherit, but I can’t change the trajectory we’re on by myself. I can only keep on keepin’ on until tragedy or nature strike me dead. And while I still have the energy to wake up and be alert and conscious, I’m going to fight. I’m going to fight to survive, even as we humans welcome Hell on Earth as the inexorable force it is.