time spent offline

I once knew of grown men that had no say over their lives, complacent and trapped in the misery of their own making. It horrified me endlessly but I would listen carefully as they tried to justify their predicament: “You must understand,” they would plead with themselves, “she’s the boss!” and we would all laugh raucously. Nothing is funny, of course, but such predicaments require humour to placate the rage. “Want another beer?” he asks right on time and I just smile and nod. I have learned a long, long time ago to leave the grown-ups alone: When you have spent a lifetime weaving the traps of misery tightly around your life, the kindest thing someone can do for you is to leave you alone to it. Sometimes, it is too late. When I get the time to be alone with my thoughts, my journal, I ask the empty pages the question that’s been bugging me all afternoon in-between beers and niceties: How does one end up trapped in such predicament? Before it’s too late for me too, I plead. The page whispers back: The horror of direct experience.

Change is terrifying. There is safety in that which is familiar, a certain comfort, even if it leaves you breathless with rage. The devil you know and such. There is no guarantee in the unknown; no safety. Change is uncomfortable, downright cruel, and so everyone gathers around on the World Wide Web and make a hobby out of their misery: Scrolling through avatars to find love, community, and belonging. I sympathize. I, too, spent the majority of my youth looking for such things online; swiping through the avatars, hashtags, and the deafening noise of the digital hoping to find the one(s). They said that’s just life now— I needed the avatars, the apps, and unlimited data to find care— and so I believed and joined the crowd online. And I would be lying if I said it was all a lie, that I had no luck in finding such things on the apps, that I don’t have fond memories laughing with the avatars on Twitter sans 2012-2015, and that one lucky summer day in 2017 I didn’t stumble upon love while swiping through more avatars to pass my summertime blues. But for the most part, I knew I was wasting away on the digital wasteland of social media apps and avatars. I craved people I can see, touch, hold; hear their voices when they laughed—  when the crack in their voice gave up the pretence they were okay in fact. The LOLs bored me endlessly so I went looking for reality.

The first few years, I bombed reality. I was too awkward trying to talk to strangers; my timing was always off. I didn’t have enough time in-between to craft the perfect response, to undo the typing and add the punctuation and extra word to make my response real funny, real insightful. My responses would come out all jumbled up in person—  nervous, awkward, unpleasant— but they were mostly kind enough to entertain me. People are genuinely kind and good in real life, despite what the noise online might have you believe. Other times, it would be too painfully awkward for everyone involved and we would leave it at that. I hated those moments. I felt silly and stupid. Why was I bothering with reality, enduring these painfully awkward experiences, when I could safely scroll through the avatars from the comfort of my couch? Everyone is there anyway. It was really uncomfortable and embarrassing my first few years trying to relearn the rules of reality—  Disorienting. But I would plead with myself constantly: “You must understand, there is nothing good for you to go back to on the digital wasteland!” And I didn’t give myself the option to go back anyway. Without social media, I had no avatars to go home to. Reality terrified me endlessly but the fact that if I didn’t figure out the rules of the offline world then I would be left with nothing, not even the avatars to turn to, terrified me even more. I kept on awkwardly trying to get strangers to talk to me.

Today, reality is my comfort and safety. Experience has taught me how to play by the rules of reality and it is beyond anything I could have imagined back when I was trapped in my digital miserly, craving to unplug but too scared to confront the offline world all around me. I don’t know why getting offline felt too scary back then; impossible even. What is there not to love about spending your days talking to real people, paying attention to reality all around you, loving and laughing in the real world? Tell me, what is so scary about leaving the digital to look for what you have been craving to find offline? The only scary part is the in-between while getting used to, while reorienting yourself to what has always been around, what has always been real: Reality. Or, you can spend a lifetime repeating their lies— you need social media to be social, etc.—  and spending yet another weekend scrolling through the avatars to pacify your misery, your rage, of not having anyone to hold, touch, feel once you turn off the devices. That is always an option. Or, or, you can try your luck at reality despite the horror of direct experience.