Mum’s illness made me realise our sunny online lives are a FRAUD
From QC Marina Wheeler’s daughter, a blistering critique of social media
At an engagement party recently, I saw a friend from university I had fallen out of touch with. We were exchanging idle chatter — ‘How are you?’ ‘What’s new?’ — when I realised she already knew everything I was telling her.
Oh, yes, I saw that on your Instagram, she confirmed. this happens all the time, because this is the new reality for my generation.
all the fun, exciting or noteworthy events in my life, I instinctively post on my Instagram profile.
But then she asked me about my mum. Oh, she’s recovered from her cancer, I said breezily.
Cancer is not something to be breezy about, but my mother Marina Wheeler, 54, who underwent two operations for cervical cancer in June and July this year, is — thankfully — now well and in good health.
My friend went a little pale, coughed uncomfortably and offered her sincere sympathies. She’s fine, I assured her, feeling a little guilty at having dropped the bombshell so casually.
But as we moved apart to speak to other people, I wondered whether it was the mention of cancer that was awkward — or the fact that, for the first time in our conversation, my friend had been caught unaware.
My mother’s illness wasn’t something I had posted about or alluded to in any way online. It had — inevitably — been very hard.
When she was diagnosed in May she had no symptoms — she was busy working as a QC, as well as writing a memoir about her own mother’s family in India and Pakistan.
During that tough time, I didn’t stop using social media altogether. In fact, I was scrolling through Instagram on a regular basis. It is an easy distraction, a view into a world peppered with Love Island memes and beach selfies, in which health appears abundant and people seem to be happy.
But while I used it as a numbing distraction, it didn’t even occur to me to add pictures of my own life at the time — of hospitals and hand-holding.
My generation are mocked by our parents and grandparents for our infernal desire to share everything. However, there’s another story in what we don’t reveal. We carefully edit, using pictures to show people who we want to be.
and the fact that we are all busy creating an optimistic, one-sided picture of ourselves to present to the world, is having a profound impact on the way we behave, form relationships and feel about ourselves.
But, while millennials take the flack, it’s not just my peers who are falling for the lure of life online.
there are a billion people signed up to Instagram, and a 2016 paper by data analysts nielsen found those in Generation X, aged 40 to 54, spent the most time on social media — almost seven hours a week, while millennials came in second at just over six hours.
It’s more popular with women, who spend six per cent more time on social media than men. a study by researchers at temple university in Pennsylvania discovered that those in midlife are actually more likely than younger people to report mental health problems from using it regularly. they dwell on how their own lives measure up to what they see online.
In the grand scheme of social networks, I am small fry. I’m a 26-year-old arts and fashion writer; my profile is private, my following is around 1,600. that’s paltry compared to the most popular person on Instagram: footballer Cristiano Ronaldo, who has more than 190 million followers.
But still, Instagram has a significant effect on me. It pushes me to perform at times when I don’t want to go out. It’s cold, uber taxi prices are surging and my clothes are too tight from a carb-loading weekend. But — and I confess this with more than a hint of shame — the promise of a good bout of Instagramming at whatever event is on the cards can spur me on.
Sometimes, it’s about publicly thanking the people that invited me (in the hope they’ll keep doing so), or simply showing my ‘audience’ that I am fine. See, I’m out and having a great time!
I arrived to the Instagram party late, five years ago. Most of my friends had been using it for years, documenting their teens on the platform — as well as on Facebook, twitter and tumblr.
the first photograph I posted was from an exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery in London — the caption a self-deprecating gag about how old I felt (how dare I have said that at 21?).
I joined to see what the fuss was about and I started to enjoy it, welcoming each validating ‘like’.
now, posting on Instagram feels almost inextricable from my daily life — and my work, too.
In simple terms, I use it to represent myself, like a CV — after all, people have been tweaking those to make themselves look good for centuries.
the photos don’t all have to be of you, dolled up and taking selfies. they don’t have to be about selling a product. they can be of the bacon buttie you had for breakfast, a book you enjoyed and want to recommend or a piece of art you loved.
I have posted all of these things. armed with a witty caption and a few choice emojis, you can express yourself, your opinions and tastes. Crucially, you’re in control.
THe curation of a perfect-looking life online has come to feel like an accomplishment in itself. I’m not sure if that’s helpful in the long run, but looking at my neat grid of thumbnail images showing a bank of good things — aesthetically pleasing objects, happy memories of nice meals or parties with loved ones — is satisfying.
Still, there’s a feeling that persists when you put your phone down. It’s a little sickly. I often find I’m left feeling voyeuristic.
and what about those moments you don’t want to share? the times when the proverbial is well and truly hitting the fan, and everything is too messy and monumental to pop a picture up and write a caption?
according to my Instagram account, those moments simply don’t exist.
It’s easy to forget, deep in a scroll hole, hiding in the bathroom at a party that I forced myself to attend, that we all feel a bit like this sometimes.
this is not an altogether new predicament. In her 1973 book On Photography, the american writer Susan Sontag said: ‘the camera makes everyone a tourist in other people’s reality, and eventually in one’s own.’
Instagram has become a holiday destination, but one lined with trick mirrors.
It feels somewhat strange, and even boastful, knowing that I only share the best parts of my life online. But sharing more can’t be the solution.
So, I’m deleting the app from my phone. I do this regularly for selfpreservation, a bit of fresh air away from the noise.
It’s not a permanent rejection; and I’m not deleting my account altogether. this is common practice among those with large digital followings. It gives them back a sense of agency.
In fact, it’s become something I now do for about a week every month, living in the real world for a while before caving and going back to the site.
Instagram can be a wildly compelling distraction device. But what I’ve learned is that I need to know my limits.