DIGITAL PTSD

I don’t exactly remember when Xanga and MySpace died and we all migrated to Facebook and Twitter. I was a teenager during that transition, one on his way to college and still firmly planted in the real world. I was worried about girls, my weight, student loans, and whether AVATAR was going to set the box office record—I bet it would and I will never let my freshman classmates who protested forget it. I suspect that transition felt nothing like now. Now feels strange. Twitter is mutating into FoxNews under the leadership of Elon Musk, Instagram has destroyed the lives of young girls in its quest to become the lovechild of Brazzers and QVC, Facebook nearly destroyed America and has been banished to the Knight’s Watch, while YouTube secretly acts as our greatest radicalization device. The great social media experiment seems to have been a dud and hope is lost.

At some point my identity began to merge with my online profile. That merger was insidiously patient and it had to be for kids like me. Kids who grew up with quarter water and scabbed knees. Park hangouts and warehouse parties with $5 cups of jungle juice. Kids who still knew the joy of “being outside!” Kids who learned how society worked by being active, physical participants where the stakes for making a mistake were immediately felt. Shaming still worked and there were fewer places to go to once you were exiled. We knew how to behave because attention wasn’t the end goal connection was. Online interactions have scrambled my connection sensors making new relationships feel more fragile than they used to. Anxiety has bludgeoned the excitement out of new meetings because the web has exacerbated our fears around vulnerability. Life feels like one long carnival game and we’re all claws scratching around stuffed animals trapped in glass boxes that we can’t grab. We can rub our fingers against the exterior but we can’t grip anything, we’re unstable. The pandemic hyper charged this feeling.

Since emerging from it I've had to simultaneously relearn and unlearn how to interact with people. Interacting extensively with strangers through social media platforms, almost exclusively for two years, has altered how I read people. There's a tiny voice in my head scanning for ulterior motives and agendas as if I'm deciphering a slew of tweets attached to an anime avatar. I've had to deprioritize that pattern recognition part of my brain and lean into cues that come from body language and facial expressions. The way strangers subtly shift closer to you when they begin to feel comfortable in your presence and make excuses to touch you when they're enjoying your presence. I've had to relearn what "too much," is when things get rambunctious and modulate my theatricality. This is all easier in person because your brain picks up on vibe shifts much faster than it can process them into intelligible ideas. This is all lost when things are 2D in 1080p, there aren't enough Ks in the world to match bodily proximity.

The best aid I’ve found during this transition back to the real world are art shows and micro-communities. One micro-community that has become a constant for me in the last year has been Woodie White’s Oyster Expedition hiking group. Connecting with strangers over shared interests gets harder once you leave college. It's especially hard in cities like Los Angeles that were sculpted by the segregationists and the automobile industry. When your city isn't walkable and rent prices aren't practical, connection hubs outside of your home or office, i.e 3rd homes, become rarities. Oyster skirts that by making the group itself the home, with each trail serving as a pop up location for social gatherings. It's been a delight to learn people outside of their curated Instagram profiles and the eclectic blend of individuals that make up the group ensure that there's always new lessons to be gleaned from our bi-weekly rendezvous.

It's no surprise that brands are eager to collaborate with Woodie because he's tapped into a longing most of us have for deeper connections. The superficiality of online life, the manicured existences we curate for the viewing public that often flaunt exclusive events—read: networking snoozefests rife with weak branded cocktails, paper plane hats, and people promising to "link"— are beginning to feel as hollow as they've always been. People want to feel like they're a part of something genuine and solid. They want to go somewhere to meet people they can't imagine they would have met on their own and they want to have organic conversations. The workout is the cherry on top. This is something to look forward to every two weeks; a place that exists outside of hamster wheel of monotony and endless culture wars.

This outlet has pushed me to examine other areas of my life that have been eroded by being always online. Over the years I’ve become terrible at being bored. I’m not alone in this either, we’re entertaining ourselves into a ditch full of adverts and remakes. The anxieties of adulthood combined with the instant gratification of social media have wrecked my creative mind. Dopamine hits are so readily available that the discomfort of nothingness that often leads to creation has eluded me. I can’t activate my imagination because ejecting out of the friction that fuels it is too easy. Learning new programs and writing stories require a tremendous amount of focus and scrolling feeds eats away at my discipline reserves like acid does wood. Whenever the next phrase slips off the tip of my mind’s tongue I plunge into the nadir of 21st century suffering, an endless scroll of Instagram reels featuring build-a-body models doing sex comedy skits. It is truly horrific.

In an attempt to wrestle back control of my mind I’m doing the dreaded digital detox. Trust me, no one is more embarrassed to be etching this in pixels for the “world” to see than I. I feel like the last person in the posse to admit that he’s got a problem on his way to the celebrity rehab facility. At least give me credit, I’m waltzing in through the front door unmasked, not scurrying through the back door in chancletas and a trucker hat shrouded in an Eddie Bauer hoodie. I’m owning this embarrassment. Also, how fucking early 2000s was that fashion reference? I saw a 20 year old at The Friend in a white tank with parachute, bedazzled baby blue jeans and platform boots. The 2000s are back with a vengeance—I may have picked the perfect moment for my escape.

So what does this mean for us? If we’re IRL friends, nothing, you probably have my phone number and can reach me whenever. If we’re IRL friends who somehow don’t have each other’s number (it happens) let’s correct that. For the rest of you lot, I’ll see you outside. If we talk on here a bunch, hit me with the digits or add me to your newsletter. I’m not trying to curve you, I’m trying to curve Uncle Zucks. My biggest fear in ditching social is missing out on cool things the homies are doing or new projects they’re trying to get off the ground. My people know I love being their cheerleader, y’all are in my world because I value y’all and the contributions you all have made to the community. If you got a newsletter or a substack, throw me on it! You’re in a new art show or launching a product? Shoot me an email or text! I want to support you, give me other avenues to do so than the like and story share.

Be good to yourself and to each other ✌🏾