Oh How We Cope

I used to Facebook stalk on the regular. I’m not talking a light stalk–going a few pictures or posts deep into someone’s profile. I’m talking a deep stalk–going to their first ever posted picture and coming back through time with them. Quickly.

Oh, how time flies.

I really hate the word stalk. It gives a malicious tinge to what I was doing. I associate it with some sort of inevitable follow-up violence. And that’s not what drives my dives into people’s pixelated personas. I seek connection.

I struggle to connect to people sometimes. The reasons are long and complicated and often being worked on in therapy. But put simply: I have a deep belief that people cannot be trusted, and a hard time challenging that belief.

Ironically, connection for me has become more and more about revealing my real, raw often unflattering self to others. And that kind of vulnerability requires trust or at least faith that even if it goes horribly wrong, there will be some recovery.

And so, for some time, when I was in an especially dark place, a place I still struggle to show the people with whom I want to feel connected, I would turn to Facebook. I’d scroll through my feed until I’d happen upon a friend. It was usually a friend I once felt very close to, but haven’t talked to in some while. Often it would be a post revealing some big exciting news like a puppy, a baby, a house, a marriage. And then I’d click. And I’d go back. Back in time to the beginning. I always just went through the pictures. I like the stories I can put together with pictures. Eventually, I’d make it back to the present. Often in tears about a lost connection. And I’d go and find another friend. And do the same thing. Until hours would pass and so would some of the darkness.

This was how I coped with the hard feelings. The feelings of deep loneliness. The fear that I would end up utterly alone. The hurt that no one cares about me. The sadness that something is utterly wrong with me.

But one day, I recognized this coping mechanism was giving me this false sense that I was connected with people. I recognized that Facebook and Instagram were keeping me tied to people I hadn’t talked to in years and had little intention to talking to again. I realized that instead of really connecting with someone during these dark times–instead of reaching out and revealing my darkness, and *fingers crossed* being met with kindness and compassion–I was sitting on my computer for hours.

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A few days ago I was talking to a couple of friends about how we use Facebook, and why we add friends when we do. I don’t really use Facebook anymore. I have an account so I can see events and use messenger, but I rarely log into Facebook itself. I used to add anyone and everyone I met. I used to have Facebook so I could use dating apps. I used to add friends so that my Hinge circle would be bigger.

While we talked, Facebook stalking came up, and we chatted about that for a while. One of my friends said, “I always go back to the start when I stalk.” And I got so excited that I wasn’t alone. I said, “I do that too.” He retracted. He was joking. But I wasn’t. That is what I used to do. I’d do it to myself too. Start from the very beginning. Usually, I’d just do my profile pictures. I don’t have all the time in the world *wink, wink*. I’d go back to this close-up picture of my face. I’m not centered. I’m off to one side. My hair is up, but some flyaways are dramatically moving in the wind. I’m wearing a striped fitted t-shirt I got from old navy. It’s white and light peach and mint green. I’m smiling. There’s movement.

I’m alone. But someone is there, taking the picture. I can’t remember who.

And I think that sums up my brain. My brain always focuses on my aloneness. It never remembers who was there, in the background, making me smile and capturing the moment for me.