45.
the discomfort of instagram: harmless or harmful? HANNAH AHERN Oh, the joy of the Instagram scroll. I’m as guilty as anyone when it comes to scrolling the app whenever I get a chance. I do it as a studybreak, I do it whenever I’m waiting for something (my morning coffee, my dog while he runs around at the park, the light rail before it arrives at the station) and I do it whenever I’m bored. Whenever someone, usually my boyfriend, catches me doing it and asks why I have been on it for the past 10 minutes, I usually respond with something that feels undeniably true at the time: “I just love it!”. But how much do we really love it? The posting, the scrolling, the clicking, the all-encompassing glow of our own eerie hypnotisation… Suddenly, I’m not sure of the answer. So many of us dedicate hours of our lives to it. But do we really love it? Or is there something else, something slightly more uncomfortable, going on? Knee-deep in one of my favourite lunchtime scrolls, I asked myself this question. At first, I justify the scrolling. As a fashion-lover, I get to follow stylists and gain inspiration for my own wardrobe. As a locked-down Sydney-sider, I get to see what my friends are up to in far away places and instantly feel more connected. As a ritual poster, I get to collect memories of all my favourite moments, forming a visual diary from the past eight years of my life I wouldn’t have the pleasure of looking back through otherwise. But then I see the flip-slide and slowly the ick starts to settle in. Over the years I’ve had it, I’ve seen and also experienced the emotions Instagram thrives off: comparison, jealousy and most of all, FOMO (the well-known ‘fear of missing out’). I often notice myself comparing my life to my feed, shamelessly full of influencers, stylists
and other fabulously famous people. I do it with an underlying awareness of the dangerous practise I’m engaging in, yet I can’t stop. I’m completely hooked. My eyes glaze over the edited, perfectly curated photos and I envy them all the same. I love this! I want more! I tell myself, as I flick to the next post. I’m in a wonderland of aesthetic lies and I don’t even mind. The posts are like candybars for my brain. Deliciously addictive, I have no intent on stopping until the whole damn chocolate box is gone. Yet I’d be lying if I said this ritual, like all bad habits, was one that didn’t come without consequences. I have noticed there has been a definitive shift within me in the years I’ve spent on the app, and not a good one at that. I have begun questioning myself more, I’ve gained insecurities I never used to have (thank you outdated yet everpresent beauty standards) and I found myself desperately coveting other people’s lives. I had become so enthralled in others’ reality that I had completely forgotten the value of my own. And all the while, I’d been engaging in an activity I thought was a harmless and joyful pastime. I thought that those little hits of dopamine were priceless. But I was beginning to realise this wasn’t the case. I can’t lie and say this realisation has made me stop using Instagram completely. Perhaps one day it will. But for now, when I sit-down for my lunchtime scroll, I am simply conscious. I see the images for what they are: more art than reality. I’ve begun to build a protective layer around myself when I indulge in the electronic haze that I know too well. My old mindless scroll has become mindful, even if it is a little uncomfortable.
