I deleted my Instagram!!!
I’ve had an instagram account since I was 12. Edit: I’ve had over 15 instagram accounts since I was 12. Instagram has been something I have been engaging with, be it actively or subconsciously, for over 8 years. That's basically half my life spent existing within an intangible realm of memes and hot people that I could probably take to court for giving me an eating disorder, and what’s worse is I was doing so willingly. I was so frequently critical of a system that I was voluntarily a party of.
My first Instagram account was EvieRose8, an alias I still use to this day. I made it when I was in 6th grade. Being the eldest child, my parents were naive to this “Instagram” phenomena and I made my account with what was perhaps an oversight in quick permission. My feed was pictures of anything, saturated with whatever pre-set-in-app filter Taylor Swift was using at the time. The discovery of the world of Instagram permanently altered my prepubescent dopamine. The way most twelve year olds rush home to sneak sugar or jack off before their parents got home from work, I rushed home from school in the afternoons eager to check my likes on my personal and my subsequent fan pages (about 11 likes, on average). There was no lust for fame or recognition, or at least not yet, but there was an excitement in being noticed.
As 13 turned to 14, excitement brewed into addiction, and Instagram quickly changed in highschool. There was a brand new social code for social media upon entering: Instagram feeds were no longer youthfully naive but rather curated moodboards of awkward fifteen year old girls adorning american apparel tennis skirts and flaunting braces. Influencer culture had permeated the waters and suddenly everyone was having photoshoots in front of their garages. I held onto this delusional hope that I took the most perfectly aestheticized photo of my record player with my brandy melville clothes on so that it could launch me into instagram legend status and I would frolic among the justgirlythings gods. I really, truly, and dearly, believed that the influencers were really just like me and I would be them someday.
My adult relationship with Instagram is pathetically, somehow, worse still. College was its own issue that Instagram certainly didn't help. Finstagram provided an unhealthy way of coping: crying out to an audience that enjoyed watching you squeal. I posted for instant gratification then had to throw my phone to the foot of my bed because of the way it made me feel. I took selfies for hours and agonized over which to post. I made friends delete group pictures I claimed I looked bad in. I archived posts. I checked my insights. I unfollowed people, then followed even more. I blocked people. I was constantly Instagramming, even subconsciously.
Finally, at 20 years old, my brain figured out what I was feeling: It was ingenuine for me to spend so much time criticizing the value systems that I was willingly deluding myself to subscribe to. I owe it to myself to finally acknowledge the repressed voice that has been screaming for release. Instagram may be an app but for post-9/11 babies it's also religious doctrine, a state of mind, and our collective valuation system.
Que: the series of realizations that have occurred within the past 3 months:
Instagram content sucks ass! I literally do not care about anyone’s posts on instagram except for Dasha Nekrasova, Phoenix Pruitt, Natalie Shaw, and favtiktoks420
Something super unique about me is that I have always wanted to go to Paris. That trip is finally happening. This is maybe the worst part to actually admit out loud: I realized I was fantasizing about my trip byway of instagram: I imagined what outfits I would wear, what I would caption my posts, and what people might comment on. I suddenly felt incredibly nauseous upon realizing that the trip of my dreams might not be for me anymore, but for an audience of highschool acquaintances. I have no interest in having to prove to others that the trip happened or that I had a good time. Paris is my personal pilgrimage, and for that reason I believe I owe it to myself to have it be private.
I have been on instagram since I was 12. That's 8 years of my LIFE. Almost HALF of my LIFE is devoted to upholding this narrative that instagram is important. Instagram isn't even real, but I have spent about half of my life thinking about it, talking about it, and existing within it.
But of course, I'm still a gen-zer and subsequently still feel the pang to publicly share everything, so I resolved I would start a blog. Two tweets, ironically, were what helped me make this decision. One said something along the lines of “more young people should have blogs.” Novel idea, but it actually really resonated with me and I’ve noticed blogs seem to be a firmly millennial entity. I think people our age could benefit from having to read and write more. The second tweet said “we should all know less about each other.” YES! I couldn’t agree more, and so I will do the world a favor by learning less about others and sharing less about myself. This blog is contradictorily password protected and pointless. The only expectations that exist on this site are my own. The only eyes that will peruse my image are those I allow in.
As for my instagram, it's not fully deleted, not yet, because that would feel like an amputation. As long as my Instagram still feels like an appendage of myself, I‘m comfortable allowing it to grow dust in the metaverse’s archive system. Meanwhile, I will try to read some books and text any hot pictures of myself to my friends.
