“Guys, I made my Instagram casual, and it’s so freeing” is the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
With copious unfinished assignments sitting in front of me amid a looming middle-of-the-night deadline, I reach for my obnoxiously broken iPhone 14… I open Instagram, my philtrum already moist from the incessant toddler-esque lipping of my septum ring. As I tap on my own profile, I realize that I am literally ignoring my friends’ content to stare at my own feed, swiping through my own posts for the 32nd time since I originally posted them.
My Instagram is casual in the sense that I post far too much and my standards for what is postable have become far too low. Yet, my need to post basically every maniacally saturated, miraculously in-focus photo I manage to take is anything but casual –– it is intensely deep and committed.
My obsession with self-projection on my Instagram page stems from a desire to be seen and known in my preferred way, a desire that is not conducive to any of the true social joys in life. I have to grapple with the fact that I am lost without my digital emo-flagging and neo-butch-mogging.
The stimulation I find in obsessively staring at my own photos is probably similar to that found by babies when they watch Cocomelon. If you did a PET scan on my brain as I scroll, it would reveal a red more severe than the communist-pride colored (PRODUCT)RED iPhone I hold in my hand at all times.
Why do I do this? Perhaps it is because the photos curated by my underground yet deeply culturally influential alter-ego, @celestecariker, exude an excessive heat comparable to that of the climate crisis. For as winter approaches and my singular pair of frail crotch-snagged jeans make their seasonal comeback, everyone must be able to figure out that I, very awesomely, have a knee tattoo when they inevitably stalk my Instagram page and click through to the 39th picture on my “me” highlight.
I am quick to assume, because of my own lived experience, that the true cause of this compulsive relationship is a more neurotic and malignant personal fault that I am unwilling to confront. I am possibly the worst influence when it comes to the actual praxis of foregoing my social media presence.
But I am not a narcissistic person. In fact I’d rather go completely unnoticed in a room, and I have trouble feeling comfortable in situations where other people are acknowledging something positive about me.
Yet, the way I use Instagram is one of the most narcissistic things ever.
I think the real problem is not my personal narcissism, but rather that we have all been deceived into thinking that the internet gives us an opportunity to control how we are perceived by others. In reality, this is completely contrary to the human condition.
Instagram, as a disembodied form of self-expression, gives us the opportunity to present ideals. Seemingly, we have all become personal propagandists, hyperfixated on a presentation of ourselves that holds little substance. Personally, I was never the type of person to curate a social media personality. I didn’t even have social media up until the COVID-19 pandemic essentially mandated it in order to supplement social interaction.
As the world politically disintegrates and systemic ills become ever more frustrating, our generation must detach from the faux identities that we have built on the web in favor of finding true, messy connections that emotionally recharge us.
In thinking about past experiences where I knew someone’s Instagram before I knew them, or got to know someone and then connected with them through the app later on, it became clear to me that no one’s ever truly swayed me with their social media presence.
I’ve come to realize that the things that I tend to fall in love with about people are the things left off Instagram. A person’s profile fails to tell you what they spend the most time contemplating, who they care about most in this world or how charming they can be. And, unfortunately, when people do share these things on the web, we have been socialized to find it cringe-worthy or “too much” for the shallow social media culture that we’ve curated.
“The modern realm of social media has morphed into this strange narcissistic digital microcosm, where anxiety-induced vanity takes precedence despite holding no relevance in the physical world.”
We have become obsessed with presenting only a surface-level perspective of ourselves left for anyone and their mom to make half-baked judgments about who we are. Why are we increasingly resistant to being known by others in a more meaningful way?
This outlet we’ve grown up with that allows us to present a “perfect” version of ourselves seems to have trained us to be profusely apologetic about the less-polished qualities that allow us to be known by others. The modern realm of social media has morphed into this strange narcissistic digital microcosm, where anxiety-induced vanity takes precedence despite holding no relevance in the physical world.
We suppress our desire to be known because of this internalized neurosis that comes from the incessant curation of our perfect digital personalities.
At the end of the day, I will always love Instagram. It does make me feel more connected to a lot of people, especially as a college student who has loved ones to keep in touch with across the world. But I think this recognition of the negative way in which social media trains us should serve as a reminder in the back of our minds to live in the physical world more unapologetically. In my recent development to become okay with and even proud of my quirks, I’ve felt a lot more known in a way that grounds me in my existence when I need it the most.
Celeste Cariker PZ ’28 loves Instagram and friendship even more so and promises she isn’t as crazy as her verbiage may suggest in this article.
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