InstaGRIPE
IT’S BEEN 10 YEARS OF LIKES... AND LOATHING
HAPPY birthday, Instagram, my bête noir, my Stockholm Syndrome, my digital filing cabinet of inflatable flamingos, avocado halves, counterfeit hip-to-waist ratios and other shiny, successful nightmares. In the ten years since it was born on October 6, 2010, Instagram has amassed more than one billion active users globally, with 27 million in the UK – just under half of the country’s population.
We have enjoyed – or endured – hot dog legs, fingers making a heart around a setting sun, feet circles at festivals, millions of memes and the fruits of ancillary apps like Facetune – which
banishes double chins and wrinkles.
The pursuit of Insta-perfection has spawned a slew of microtrends, from a rise in filter-inspired plastic surgery to colourcoded bookshelves and performative armchair activism.
We’ve sold and been sold to, influenced both covertly by algorithms and invisible data gathering, and overtly by reality TV stars in crop tops posing next to boxes of teeth-whitening toothpaste. Instagram has made people millionaires and forever changed the face of marketing and communication.
So, yes, in its first decade, Instagram has done much. But it’s done nothing little for this addict’s confidence, professional output, time management, self-esteem, jealous tendencies or acute anxiety.
In fact, I hate it deeply – except when I post something people seem to like.
Like many, I feel empty, bored and irritated when I use it, and as if I’m missing out if I don’t. It makes me question everything from my taste in interiors and literature to the quality of my friendships, looks and personality.
In 2017, the Royal Society for Public Health found that Instagram had the most negative impact on teens’ mental health. This came as no surprise – but, in fact, no one is safe from its dark underbelly. With the assurance of anonymity I spoke to a high-profile author, someone with over 150k followers on the social network, who told me she is trapped in a cycle of needing to be present for her work.
‘I hate the pressure I feel under to have an opinion,’ she says. ‘I loathe it.’
Of other users who told me they hated Instagram some were bored – ‘it’s so vacuous,’ said one – while one even said: ‘It melts my brain.’
Some aversions went deeper: ‘It feels like failing slowly and constantly,’ says fellow journalist Alexandra Jones. ‘I should just delete it but it’s like picking a scab – oddly satisfying even though it makes you bleed.’
An acquaintance who was made redundant deleted the app because she
IG makes me question everything from my taste in interiors to my quality of friendships
can’t currently tolerate anyone else’s success, while another who has been struggling to conceive quit because ‘seeing all the babies is so painful’.
Of course, plenty of people love it: ‘I have next to no followers but I LOVE Insta,’ said one such fan. ‘I’ve made actual IRL friends who I’ve stayed with. I’d happily marry it!’ But what about annoying people? ‘I just unfollow them.’
Which sounds so simple. And for many it is. Elizabeth Cates, 25, an influencer and blogger originally from Wisconsin but now settled in Norfolk with her husband and son, has 28k followers on IG.
‘It has helped me make friends, earn money and go on holiday,’ says Cates, who can make around £1,300 a month from it.
But she admits that influencers do have a responsibility to their communities.
‘People are at a crossroads,’ she says. ‘They can’t decide if they want to stay for connection or leave because it makes them feel bad.’
The average daily social media usage of internet users worldwide amounted to 144 minutes per day, according to Statista.
‘It’s a drug,’ says psychologist Emma Kenny, who has over 14k followers on the app. ‘It sells the promise of success. What Insta doesn’t want you to know is that the best thing for your mental health is to extricate yourself from the app.’
I tell her I fear I won’t exist if I’m not on Instagram.
‘That’s marketing perfection,’ she cries. ‘Convince the user their individual life is secondary to the one online surrounded by strangers.’
Summarising how this works is complex – The Social Dilemma on Netflix explains how pop-ups, branded content and advertising manipulate our attention and erode our self-esteem, only to sell us all the things we need to fix it.
If we’re not buying, we’re posting – building a brand even if we’re not aware of it, driven by the promise of dopamine with every little red heart. Kenny says it isn’t narcissism driving us but a desperate desire to belong.
But what about the winners? Those who could post a picture of the pavement by accident and get thousands of likes. Is Instagram bad for them too?
‘Yes,’ says Kenny. ‘Lots of positive reinforcement comes at a cost to your anxiety levels. We all know you’re one
photo from making mistake, from being cancelled. Being constantly aware of that is challenging.’
Of course, it’s not all bad. The connection can help counter depression and loneliness – and there are many forces for good on the platform, including those promoting body confidence like Molly Forbes and those like Alice Rose, dedicated to breaking the taboo around infertility. I am grudgingly aware that I’m responsible for my own usage as I am with tequila and cheese.
‘Limit yourself to a short amount of time each day,’ says Kenny, recommending 30 minutes tops. ‘Look, scroll, put away, live.’
Given Insta’s going nowhere – it launched Stories to match Snapchat in 2016 and has seen TikTok and raised it Reels – it’s me who has to change. And unless I go cold turkey like my husband (‘I’ve got so much more time now’) I’m going to have to get to grips with that elusive beast, moderation. So here I am, wearily raising a glass to the next ten years.