Spaghetti, Cute Puppies or Why I Want to Quit Instagram

Over the last few months, Instagram has become a bit like that good friend that you used to be really close with, but have drifted apart from, and although you haven’t officially ‘broken up’, the vibe is just slightly off. I have toyed with the idea of quitting permanently for a while now and want to share with you my messy, random, emotional thoughts that are not unlike your Insta feeds full of spaghetti, cute dogs, and Greek weddings.

A few weeks ago, I finished a book that I adored and I felt inspired to write a short text. I liked what I had written and I was surprised that my inner critic gave me the green light too. I decided to post it on Instagram. Even though it was late, even though I have plenty of rules about not posting late.

Unlike my previous post–leaning on an old car in Saint Tropez in a green silky dress–it barely got any likes. Suddenly my critic felt responsible. “What did you think, you fool?! Nobody likes this because it sucks!” I felt shame. And then I felt shame about feeling shame because surely I knew better than to let Instagram influence my sense of worth? Surely not. Who was I kidding? Who are we all kidding? To post something that you’ve saved and loved for a long time and get no likes, nowadays, is the equivalent of arriving at a party in a bunny costume, Bridget Jones– style, only to find a crowd of fully-clothed people.

I have put up with the platform for so long, mostly because I was told that if I wanted to break through as a writer, I’ll need a decent following online. Giving credit where credit is due, Instagram has allowed me to connect with authors such as Dolly Alderton, Natasha Lunn, and Amor Towels who have read and commented on my writing, and for that I am truly grateful. But at this stage, I need to admit to myself that Instagram does a lot more harm than good.

There are many reasons why I find Instagram toxic, and I’ll explore more of them below, but if I had to sum it up: it is because of the way Instagram infiltrates my in-between time, hijacks my emotions, and influences my sense of self. Which is all very shocking because it isn’t even that I deliberately spend any time on Instagram.

I take my phone to set up an alarm and without my command or awareness my thumb is already reaching for the icon, its location memorised by my motor neurons. Anytime when boredom is just about to reveal my secret talents, my ingenious thoughts, Instagram is there, offering somebody else’s. And even though I am so used to it, it never feels any less wrong. Surely we’re not meant to be constantly tipped out of balance by the random insertion of information which provokes uninvited feelings of jealousy, envy, fear, anger, admiration? Surely we’re not meant to be able to then store those emotions away in a drawer like a pair of scissors that we no longer need? And anyway, even if we’re meant to, we’re definitely not able to. All the inspiring astro readings, bite-size counselling sessions, and chubby-baby cheeks don’t go away; they just accumulate in our heads, buzzing around, keeping sustained focus at bay, making it so much easier for us to reach for our next hit. A vicious cycle, one might say. 

Who else has put their phone on aeroplane mode to ‘get a task done’, and as you were finishing up and reaching out to turn your phone back on, felt the adrenaline rush, the tensing of your abdominals, the body’s anticipation of dopamine? Like a druggie waiting for a hit, or in this case, a cornucopia of notifications. But the irony of it is that at least the druggie does get a good trip. With Instagram, most often it’s a miserable one.

Instagram comparison is like the critique you get from an arsey-narcissistic boyfriend that you’re head-over-heels for. You take it all in, you believe it, you vow to change. Until one day you realise that the only problem you ever had wasn’t your thigh gap, it was your boundaries.

I first joined Instagram when I was in eighth grade, some thirteen (?!?) years ago. I mostly used it to try and impress older students whom I was too shy to make contact with in real life but brave enough to give a follow. 

But as Haley Nahman wrote in a newsletter recently, things in life can often get ruined by unconscious processes becoming conscious. At some point I began to feel like my account was a narcissistic parade of photos that were showcasing something about me that I didn’t really feel was the most important: my looks.

I created a second account to share the part of me that was impressed with ‘strong words that mean something’, as Jo March likes to say. I shared my blog posts and the sources of my inspiration. I wrote poems every day, posted them, used all the hashtags. I went from 600 to 3,000 followers in less than six months. 

From then on, all photos in which I looked ‘hot’ went into one profile; all photos in which I was reading books with glasses on went into the other. It wasn’t long before I started feeling schizophrenic. I was compartmentalizing my life. My poor girlfriends, bless them, got sick and tired of me asking which profile I should get rid of or post on, as if solving this dilemma was going to improve the world’s GDP.

Increasingly, neither profile felt like me. I was neither this, nor that; I was both. I changed the name of one of the profiles to ‘iamnorapopova’, where I was meant to integrate the two and just be myself. But I struggled. Firstly, I felt uncomfortable posting photos of myself on an account that was meant to present my writing, as if the ‘hotter’ I looked, the less likely people would believe that my value lay elsewhere. Secondly, I had taken a year off the platform and Instagram was now punishing me with low engagement rates, no story viewers, and very few likes.

I am not fully on board with the writers who present the platform in an eerie and dystopian way–as a manipulative tool used by greedy, cruel giants who want to liquify our brains and deepen our insecurities so we are easier to commodify. But I have to admit there are certain things which feel odd, and what feels even more odd to me now is how much I’ve tried to comply with them at the expense of my own needs.

It’s the algorithm that decides whom to show your posts to, as well as when and how often. It picks your ‘friend suggestions’ (how come it’s always somebody you already know??), what images to ban and hide. It requires you to be constantly present, and if you don’t comply, it threatens you with nonexistence. As Jia Tolentino writes, in real life you can just exist, without acting, and are still visible to other people. On Instagram you need to constantly post, share, and remind people that you’re there if you want followers or likes. They are like reward Skittles you get for good behaviour–behaviour that generates income and popularity for the app.

Knowing all this, I sometimes wonder why it’s so hard to just quit. And there are many reasons: addiction, the stubborn hope that it might widen career prospects, but also because who we are on Instagram has become a part of our non-Instagram identity. We love to play with the illusion that we have control over people’s perception of us. Instagram offers us the possibility to present ourselves in an artworked, filtered, pre-planned way which is often much preferable than the messy, unpredictable encounters of real life.

And even if it isn’t preferable, it’s a nice addition. Yes, I can come across as awkward irl sometimes, but have you seen my photo that got 550+ likes? It says something about me. Something that people care to know. 

I’ve heard the argument that Instagram helps people to stay connected. Maybe. But it’s the type of dodgy connection you get when you’re three floors below ground level. A connection that can never fully load. A connection that makes us lazy friends.

I’ve tried hard to make it work. I taught myself to post stories, although stories did (and still do) give me anxiety. I forced myself to make reels, though I felt so cringe. I tried to ignore the unnatural and paranoid sense of being watched. I’ve also tried to ‘be myself’, accepting that we must evolve with the times and that in today’s time this also means on Instagram. So I created new profiles to represent me better. I shared vulnerable thoughts and sacred pieces of writing. And yet, it never occurred to me to honour that big part of myself that actually wouldn’t be on Instagram at all. The part that loves privacy and mystery and keeping a lot of her favourite things to herself.

Increasingly I value that self more than the possibility of followers, likes, or quantified worth. So, dear Instagram, know that my discomfort will be bigger than yours when I look at the remnants of my old self scattered around a feed that hasn’t been updated for a long time. Know that I will miss having my good outfits validated, my witty thoughts acknowledged. Know that I will wonder if all the people I barely know but are the first to like my posts will suddenly forget about my existence. But also, please know that I will be a lot better off not trying to gain your approval, to follow your ‘rules’, to feel joy as you push at me random posts that judge my life. I will be a lot better off following my own needs and placing solid boundaries, rather than trusting your tempting but elusive promise that if only I change myself in this way or that, I might be known, I might suddenly matter.

To Reality,
With Love,
N.