The Reality of Digital Disconnection The Discomfort of Instagram:

the reality of digital disconnection

JESSICA LIU

I think I’m lonely.

I said this realisation out loud one afternoon on video call with a friend in Sydney. It was a very strange thing to come to terms with and as such, was something I’d only just realised I’d been pushing back against for quite some time now. This statement of mine was spectacularly constructed given that I was—ironically—in the presence of company when I said it. I was entirely midconversation with a close friend I’d known for six or seven years. This does, however, shed some light on the nature of loneliness, that one doesn’t actually have to be alone in order to feel lonely. This fact had eluded me for so long and was one of the reasons I’d rejected attaching such a sentiment to

myself. I had all these wonderful people in my life, so how could I possibly have been feeling lonely? I suppose like most horror stories of the 2020s, it begins with the pandemic and the jolting shift into isolation. The second ironic element of my revelation on call with my Sydney friend was that, yes, I was talking to them, but I was also so far away from them too. I guess one of the beauties of technology is that I could feel so close to a friend without having to be close in proximity at all, which is a luxury we’ve not always had in the past. Shifting my life online amidst the pandemic lockdown, I was almost excited. Little old introverted me was relieved at the reduced amount of interaction and was very pleased at being able to watch all my lectures from bed each day.

But the bemusing thing about technology is that it cultivates a false sense of being connected. Our computers and phones can bring anybody we could ever want to us at the drop of a hat. It becomes impossible then, to let loneliness materialise for even a second before we push it aside. But this was certainly too good to be true. Texting hides the faces of my friends, pre-recorded lecturers don’t know if I interrupt them to watch Netflix reruns. Not to mention that any live call always falls victim to slow internet or technical delays.

You dropped out for a moment there— What did you say?— She crawled under the—and ran for— —it was absolutely hilarious. Wait who was he again?— —oh, don’t worry about it.

I think the loneliness that has been bred out of isolation and the digital age is a peculiar one. It’s incredibly sly and misleading but above all, immensely uncomfortable, more so than I think any other type of loneliness is. Its discomfort comes from the jarring sensation of watching the world put on its brave face and tell everyone that things are as they should be, and still feeling as if they’re not. The university is still running as it should. You can still keep in touch with others as you should, so what could possibly be wrong, right?

Another distinguishable aspect of technology is that it is rife with distraction. So confused about what I was feeling, I turned frequently to the wonders of social media’s instant gratification as a form of escapism. Sitting in the discomfort of my disconnectedness was too difficult, too challenging. I think a part of me had become worried that I was to blame for my loneliness, that if everything else was functioning as normal, my unsettling, disjointed feelings must be because of me. I wanted to confront that idea even less than the actual feelings themselves, and so I buried myself headfirst into the digital space instead.

I’m lucky that I discussed all of this with my friend when I did. Together we came to realise that it was entirely possible to feel lonely and separated from other people even if one is not literally alone. Loneliness comes from a lack of connection. It was no wonder I’d begun to feel this way after I’d realised that most of my interaction with anyone for the past year had been held through a screen without any real substance behind it. It’s also a deeply emotional experience, and it’s that emotional kick that differentiates loneliness from simply being alone.

In the end though, I’m glad that I sat with my discomfort long enough that afternoon to decipher what was going on. It’s still difficult to find human connection in real tangible ways but it’s easier now to realise that my loneliness was a completely normal reaction to the alienating experience of living for so long through a digital medium. I’m lucky that now I can go for coffee with many of my friends again, that Hancock Library can feel me writing deep within its walls and that I can exist outside of my screen once more. There are only so many chances that we get to truly connect with the people around us, to listen to them and to have them listen back. By admitting to our discomforts, to our loneliness, we begin to tell other people I feel the same way as you do. And if that’s the case, well then, we can never truly be alone, can we?